The Beekeeper
by ineffablediann
Summary: The Watson's thought they had forever, Sherlock was home finally, everything was right in the world as they fell into new rhythms. Then John's world stopped. You all are simply amazing. Thank you for taking the time to read!
1. Chapter 1

"Mary?" John's voice hitched, his chest stuttered willingly ignoring the necessity. "Mary?! Please, oh dear god, love... no you cannot..."

Gregory was on the scene in moments, he had heard the callout and recognised the description. Christ, John had just texted that they were headed to hospital since Mary had finally neared active labour.

God, the two of them had nerves of steel to even wait that long; but what else could he expect from an ex-army doctor turned surgeon and his lovely who was a neonatal doctor herself? He prayed to the heavens he was wrong, but turned on the lights and sped to the scene.

Sherlock had been on the periphery, he had only been back two months. Just long enough to begin to heal the hurt in his and John's former life, for Mary to tell him that John still loved him, but that the doctor was hers now. Their child's now.

That he would have to be content as the uncle that she knew John would want him to be. That she wanted him to be. They could work it all out as it came. She was as steady and calm about their future as family, it had disarmed him.

His mobile chimed, alerting him to a text from John. It had to be time. He had been told earlier that Mary had gone into labour around three that morning, he had joked about the birthing hour and half-deduced a late evening birth as they, even being first-time parents, would get through this as if this was the fifth in their brood.

John had liked that thought, Mary had quipped at him to shut it. How appropriate. He'd called ahead to the florist that Mycroft fancied and had a hand-tied bouquet prepared for pick-up right at their closing.

Peonies, roses, and berries of some sort, all in Mary's prefered blush tones, brought together with some deep bluish-purple buds. Tasteful, appropriate, the blue the hint that Sherlock had known without a doubt that there would be a son in his best friends' lives very shortly.

In his life, his godson Hamish Magnus Watson would breathe his first breath sometime before eight that evening. Silly of them to think that he wouldn't have been able to keep the deduction to himself.

So very much blood, too much. Mary tried to speak. John could not hear, so he leaned even closer to her mouth, murmurs of comfort stilled so that he might be able to hear her. His heart broke, just shattered at her words. No, she could not leave him, it just was not on. Not right, their child had to be ebbing as well... nonononono this was not happening.

The D.I. was on the scene just as they were placing the gurney into the ambulance, John at the ready to jump in. He was able to fire a quick question to the harried doctor as to which hospital they were headed to before they whisked the couple away.

Gregory nodded grimly at D.I. Dimmock who had been first on scene making this his sodded mess. Poor bloke, he'd definitely be ready for a few pints tonight. He'd ring him after he knew... after.

Damn.

John had been just covered, but looked hardly scathed, Mary though... better not to think too far down that path, as yet. The cabbie and cab alike were obliterated. Same with the other vehicle, but the driver seemed not to be in too bad a shape. Probably drunk. Been off work a few hours... possible. Not his concern, he had to remind himself. Not now. Later, after. After. He slammed the door and headed directly to Bart's.

Sherlock breezed into Molly's office, only to find her not there. Odd, she must have headed up to the ward already, which honestly he was fine with. Possible that she and Greg had been together when the text came through from their friends. They'd be announcing their own imminent parenthood to them all in just a few days time, after the Watsons had settled back at Baker Street.

He'd let them keep their secret. It had all been because of the wedding that the two got together in the first place from what Sherlock understood, good for them both.

Sherlock headed up to the ward, expecting to see a pacing Lestrade and a jubilant, ecstatic Molly, but they were nowhere to be seen. Sherlock grimaced and felt the off nature, especially when he was told by one of the nurses that the Watsons were not there on that floor. His heart sunk to his stomach, the nurse was still speaking words he no longer heard as he walked away, his mobile chiming once again. This time Lestrade.

Accident. Bad. At Bart's in A&E. Mary and baby. Hurry.

He had never run so fast in his life, as he took those steps two or three at a time. John, John would need him. Mary... Hamish... No. Not tonight. Not again. John... he would be devastated. They had to live... had to.

Sherlock raised his mobile, speed-dialing Mycroft, filled him in and pleaded as he got to the final flight of stairs to have the best neo-natal care here for them. He promised anything, he did not care. He would not let John down again.

They took Mary back, and of course, of course he knew he could not follow. He could not assist, but damn it to hell if he wouldn't wait as close as possible to the surgery doors. He was losing his wife, possibly their child... where else would he be?

The nurse pulled him to the closest counter and began the arduous task of information gathering from him; he himself had to be seen, but much later, he promised her. He had people coming, yes, they would see to him, make sure he was seen while Mary was... while they fixed her, delivered their baby. Oh god, he wouldn't be there...

Yes, the child would be able to be seen after... after. Maybe the neo-natal ward... would be for the best, he agreed. No, it was their first, they didn't know the sex just were hoping for healthy... then the world spun to black.

Just enough for him to grab the counter and feel the wrongness of the laminate beneath his fingers. He heard his name and whipped round at the sound, the voice like a lightning strike, electrifying his systems all over again forcing the adrenaline to push once again through his body to keep him on high alert. This was a battlefield once again. One he, sadly, could not breach as yet.

His friend, his closest...

Sherlock skidded to a ramshackle halt, bouquet dangling from his long fingers as he assessed John's... oh... Mary.

"John... It's alright." Sherlock lied. He knew as well as John how this would play out. "I'm here, I'm sure the Lestrades will be shortly. Let's get you looked at. You know Mary and... the baby will be in fine hands for now."

"Sherlock-" John tried to speak but his knees buckled once again, this time he could not stop them, but Sherlock, Sherlock was there to catch him. "I don't know... we never did..."

"It's a boy, John. Hamish, your Hamish will need you very soon, I'm sure. Let's get you what you need... I'll not leave you again."

Six hours later, John welcomed Hamish into his arms. He cried, for everything. His son... their son... Mary should be here, not still in... not the time to break down again.

"Want to hold him then?" He looked up towards Sherlock, tried to steady himself. "A godfather should get acquainted, you know..." It wasn't that John couldn't stand to hold his son, not that he couldn't handle the dichotomy of joy and absolute despair these first moments held.

"Of course," Sherlock shifted the scratchy bands that itched his sensitive skin. But they were a lifeline, a tether, to John and Hamish. "God, John, he is beautiful."

It wasn't usual protocol, but Mycroft had seen to him getting the bands so he could be in neo-natal if John couldn't.

Sherlock raised the baby into the crook of his arm and softly smiled, his face gentling in the awe of the life that was connected to the man he loved more then anything.

"He looks like-"

"You both." Sherlock interrupted. "Mary's dark hair, the steel grey speaks of blue eyes to come... he's perfect you know."

Gregory and Molly had gone back to her office until they could be of use. Thank God her sofa had a pullout... the two rested, inseparable as she cried herself to sleep. He got a text from John saying Hamish Magnus was healthy and he and Sherlock were with him, but that Mary still was just out of surgery, that it looked bleak. Sherlock followed up twelve minutes later giving which AICU room Mary was in.

He didn't think she'd make it out of the induced coma, but didn't want that passed to Molly or John. Gregory had to agree. They'd been up in a few and would spell John if he'd let them. He held Molly a bit closer, thanking God that they were all safe.

Maybe they should wait a little longer to spread the news Molly carried. He had never felt more protective in his entire life. Never more blessed than at that moment. To be able to kiss her hair and breathe her in...

Mary's hair blew gently in the breeze. They were in Paris on their honeymoon, this was the week Hamish had been conceived... perfect. Everything was right. She was smiling, laughing at the gust as it tangled her perfectly flaxen-honey coloured hair. Later, she'd allow it to darken back out, opting not to chemically change her hair while pregnant.

Gravid belly, full of his child... God he worshiped her often, the altar of her body everchanging. He had not known the fullness of a human heart until then.

But now, this moment, she was a will o' the wisp, alight from the interior, luminous and wanting. John would always have these memories, would be able to share them one day if his Mary couldn't come back. He knew the chances, knew what her wishes were. If this were to happen, he'd have to talk to Sherlock, have Greg and Mols there for it.

For Hamish, they'd need to care for him for just a little while... a day for John to get over the grief. For Sherlock to comes to terms with Mary's proposal. They were going to ask him back to Baker Street anyway, Mrs. Hudson having moved next door with Mrs. Turner to keep her company now that she was no longer letting the flats she owned.

The two old ladies loved to titter and keep on, kept them young, they said. They were going to see if he wanted 'A' for himself, knew he would never refuse. He'd have Mycroft soundproof the place so Mary... so he and Hamish wouldn't keep disturbing him when he was in the middle of something delicate.

Her hair... God she was gorgeous. Is so now... so fair, his very own Snow White. Sleeping under a spell... him praying once again at her feet, this time in reverence and awed thanks for their child she might never meet.

Sherlock had not known her long, but he knew. Knew Mary was right for John, all goodness and strength. Faith; the faith that woman had in John rivaled his own. He came in to spell John, sat as the machines susurrations filled the room, her vitals visible, but the stability was medicinally induced... they all knew that this was a period to adjust before the goodbye to this woman.

The beekeeper, her name for him. She was crack of the whip smart, John's Mary, with a mouth to match it. She'd buzz at him trilling nonsense to get him to shut his mouth, telling him frequently to go mind his hives, not theirs. The memory caused a small chuckle in the otherwise quiet room.

"Honey, Sherlock. That is what keeps, sweetens life. Bees want nothing to do with vinegar, or with singular living. They need the colony just as you need John, need your tribe you've created, that still care even after it all. Be a good keeper, Sherlock."

She sometimes could be quite sage, he thought. He would miss those combative playful spats, the truths that were gleaned. The probability that Hamish would be that way would be less now, but Sherlock could try to mold him a bit toward his mother. Toward the lightness everyone saw in her before the darkness finally took her from those who cared. Who had an interest.

This is the story of how John became a widower and father, Sherlock a parent as well, and the movements between grief to life after.


	2. Chapter 2

John wept beside her, the fingers he grasped cool to the touch. Still not warm, surgery did that... nothing to be alarmed about. He didn't know how much of Mary was left, what spark, if any was still buried inside. Her glow diminished, she felt more a body, waxen... not his wife... no, his wife could not be like this. She had lost so much... had been deprived for so long. He could feel the emptiness, he didn't want to, but he could.

She was alight in the room, in the air he breathed surrounding him. That was her presence, too bad it wasn't inhabiting her corporeal self anymore. They said that too, had happened to him when he had been shot, out-of-body experience. He had seen himself on the sand, grit turning to tar dark as his life fled him to quench the parched land. Why he, how he was pulled back he would never know. All he remembered was that then waking in the ICU. Nothing between.

But he also had not experienced near the trauma, the oxygen deprivation... she failed two... no three times back there. Yet here her body was, drawn pale and shuddered from the world, with her effervescent presence filling the blank spaces trying to knit his already broken heart. That's why Paris, the dream. Had to be. She knew he was strong, but had also seen him mourn, met him two months after Sherlock's planned suicide, or what he thought was.

She brought him understanding, allowed Sherlock room in his life even if he was not among the living. Allowed him in their life as a couple, proofing his blog entries, genuinely happy for him to be writing about his best friend. Their relationship may have been based in the darkest parts of the broken human condition, but oh God, how she taught him to see beauty once again. All at once he was alive, and welcomed the sun and blithely embraced his Mary in the mornings they were tangled together.

The proposal had been simple, as he was a straightforward man, on one knee with her seated in his chair. He clasped her hand as if it were the most delicate thing in existence. She, obviously agreed, and four months later they married in an old chapel surrounded by friends in the countryside. Then, cyclically, he thought, back to Paris. The life she had within her, the life she might never have now.

It had been less than one full day since Hamish was born, and here John was, mourning his wife while Sherlock looked after Hamish in the step-down ward. His lungs had been clear, and remarkably he was, really truly was, perfect. Even after the accident. John recorded a little of Hamish on his phone and played it to Mary, so she might hear their child. He cooed, didn't really cry. It was sweet, heart-rendingly so, even Sherlock was affected by the wee thing.

John caught him earlier singing an old lullaby, like the one his mother would sing. Old, earthen old gaelic, as if Sherlock were weaving ancient protections around his godson. He told Mary that, if he didn't quite believe it, but he thought Sherlock might just one day make an excellent father. He didn't linger long on the thought, it brought him back to Mary's last words, and he really did want to hear her voice just once more. Not to negate her blessing, but her voice, it was always so soothing, made things clearer. Even as he had held her, she knew who he would turn to, told him she couldn't be happier if he chose that.

Paris, Sunlight. Laughter.

Beautiful, Rounded. Full from his child.

Their firstborn.

His firstborn.

His only.

Oh how precious his son was to him, but he would have an entire lifetime hopefully, what were these first few... John visited with him twice a day, a couple of hours snatched here or there. Last night, late, he was up there until almost dawn.

With Sherlock there though, he knows Hamish is loved and secure, he needs these last few halting moments with his wife. Her story is ending, needs to be witnessed, she needs care herself. His son's is just starting, with Sherlock as their anchor keeping them safe at the bay.

Mary knew. She knew the moment of impact that she was gone, she worried more over Hamish then herself. Keep our baby alive. Keep my heart going, do what ever you have to...get the baby out. I'll always be with you John...

No, Paris, she was in Paris with her hair down her back, all soft curves and heat. That is how he would remember her. How she would want to be remembered. Not like this. They'd talked about it, he'd have to let her go soon, he had just wanted more time. A lifetime, was all. They are short anyways, they maybe would have had thirty good years together before he began to fail. Before she began teasing him because his hair's gone white and the grandkids get too many sweets from him at tea. It would have been a good life.

Now, now he had Sherlock, their home on Baker, their entire relationship to sort. He'd have to start before they got home, but he didn't want to leave Mary, not quite yet. John kissed her forehead and rested his ache-filled body in the reclining chair for a short rest. When he woke, the time for talking would begin.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock sat enamored with the small new life in his close embrace. He would still be in NICU stepdown for the next couple of days, due to the way he came into the world, but as far as the tests were concerned, Hamish Magnus Watson was hearty and hale.

Magnus.

Bless John and his sentimentality, bless them both honestly. Using Sherlock's middle name, it was an honor. Then again, he was the child's godfather so it was fitting he supposed.

The little bundle writhed to settle once again with a deep shudder that only infants seem to have. He had been ill prepared the first time he felt it, panic rose as his mind spun contingencies. Oh what a fool he felt when, in the next half-second his mind caught up, yet again, to realize the child had just been showing his restlessness in his sleep.

He raised the child to meet his lips with the baby's brow, the ghost of a kiss gentled across the soft expanse. "Hamish, you would be well taken care of, I and your father will see to it."

Well, his father, himself, and Mycroft.

He had appraised his brother of what had transpired the night previous, and accepted his condolences for both himself upon the loss of a friend and for John and the loss of his wife. Mycroft knew the latter would not be expressed for a while yet, but felt it necessary to state nonetheless. If anything, his brother was thoughtful of others feelings even if he chose not to express them himself, as Sherlock had been. Still was in many ways, but that is what had kept him alive those two and a half years. That and hope for John's life, his love possibly one day.

Then, to come home to him married, John's wife with child. It was both one of the most horrible and blessed moments in his life. His love, his very best friend alive and happy, made so by someone else's actions. By Mary, smart, wry, kind Mary. Very obviously in her third trimester, the summation of their love growing physically within her.

A child for John, possibly children. Sherlock had always known John would have been a very good father. Bittersweet as it was, he accepted it with dignity. Mary had pulled him aside after their third dinner together as John had been making tea for them, and with glinting ferocity, veiled in affection reminded him where John's priorities should lie. Who was Sherlock to argue at that point, she was correct on all counts.

Even now, he knew how she felt, knew Sherlock would love these two. There was nothing for it, he would pick up the pieces of his friend's heart and try to mend it as well as Mary had. To cradle and stitch and heal John was his singular occupation. Caring for Hamish was just icing. Sweet, dark furls peeked from beneath the white cap that covered his godson's head. The antiseptic smell lost against the new post-amniotic smell that was solely the scent of a newborn. Curious, how he had begun the scent-bond process with Hamish, even though the child was not biologically his. He knew though, that if he had to, he would kill for this child.

God, his poor John, two floors down, deep in mourning. He should be bonding with Hamish, he needed some respite from the oppressive weight, needed some of the latent joy, the contentment of holding this tiny being in his sturdy arms. Sherlock came to just the doorway to signal one of the nurses, he'd been loathe to use the call button, as this was a minimal task and didn't need to put anyone on alert as Hamish was well. No this was easier.

He knew Molly could not come up here, but she could spell John, convince him to come up. The nurse agreed it would be good for both father and son, so called down to Molly's office with the request. When that was completed, she brought a cup of decent coffee for him and a cello wrapped sandwich with the order for him to eat. Hamish would hold just fine in the isolette, she promised. He needed to keep his strength up as well, she had stated firmly, but with care behind the words.

She saw a family healing, it gave her spirit a rise. He was glad for it, these nurses deserved that. Good endings, or beginning, depending on how one looked at it, for the little ones they cared for all hours of the day with quiet steady determination.

John came to them three hours later, clean but still worn.

Sherlock had looked up at the scuffle he had heard against the lino. He had been lulling Hamish with an ever evolving score that was being scribed into vellum in his mind palace for later honing. He continued as John walked up to them and placed a steady hand on Sherlock's shoulder, pressing once in a long decided gesture between them of thanks. All he could do was greet the sentiment with an upturn of his mouth and kind gaze.

"Want your child?" It was a simple, straightforward query. He knew John might not be ready, but upon taking in the other man's posture, he indeed saw the deep craving to hold as well. "Here, sit John, I'll hand Hamish to you."

"Lovely little bugger, isn't he?" John bemused as they traded places, him seated to Sherlock standing as he handed Hamish over. "Christ, he is nothing short of a miracle."

"He'll be intelligent too, just as his parents are. Seems to have your appetite." He refused to use any past tense even though they both knew the inevitability of Mary's passing. "The two of you make quite the picture, John."

"It feels good to finally, god finally hold him. I need to get back down to Mary soon though, are you still alright being here?"

Sherlock could see the light crinkle of worry just at John's eyes and had to dispel it. "Yes, John. I'm fine here, we are fine. Take the time you need."

"Sherlock, there are some things we need to discuss... very soon. Maybe at the cafeteria, it's quiet this late... think you could get Mycroft to get us... we are going to need papers drawn and my documents from the flat..."

Anything, John. Whatever you need.

"Quite, I'll step out to the family area and make the necessary calls. Do you need to speak to..."

"Yea, I will, to tell him what we'll need. You and I will need." The weight of the words snapped them both like a taut rubber band. "You and I, Sherlock. Do you understand?"

"As you once stated, John, it's all fine. I'm sure he's prepared new papers for us both, for Hamish to be included, for any eventualities that might occur. I am his godfather now, after all."


	4. Chapter 4

"I am his godfather now, after all." Sherlock had stated as he left to make the call. John just sat back in the rocker contemplated his son, his, their beautiful child. If Mary had anything to do with it, she would see them happy. John would do his best to not muck or muddy the situation and speak plainly with Sherlock when he returned.

God, that was going to be a conversation, as if he wasn't gutted enough. His military reserve though, had brought him solace. He could do this, it would be hard, but he could. Once they were settled at Baker Street, it would be both easier and harder. Maybe he could have Molly and Mrs. Hudson pack everything but the pictures at the flat. He didn't have a clue how he would handle seeing her clothing...

No. Not right now. Right now, he had Hamish. His son, their son, in his arms, peacefully asleep as newborns are wont to do. He nuzzled down, breathing his child in, placing feather light kisses over his face, holding him close to feel him breathe. What a lovely, precious soul he was.

Entirely an unknown, an ever evolving mystery. That should give Sherlock something to fill his curiosity, his thirst for knowledge, though on something other than an academic level, John glibly thought.

No, Sherlock was smitten with his godchild, it was as plain as a sheet of fine vellum being written on in indelible ink. Sherlock, for the first time John thought, might actually be a little bit in love.

For now, there would be mourning. His wife, beautiful Mary, God, she was luminous, would be leaving them soon. He had come to as good of terms as he was going to come to on that for now, nothing to do but say goodbye now. The prognosis had been tenuous to begin with, this the most likely outcome. He didn't blame the doctors, thanked them, in fact, for caring for his wife. She had begun to slip ahead of him, and he would gracefully abide by her wishes. Thank heaven they had discussed all this, that they had been sensible, for now when there was no sense.

There really was no sense to her loss, no reason why their son should not have grown knowing his mother, but there it was. Accidents rarely make any sort of sense. At least, he had not lost them both, Mary would still be in his heart and Hamish would carry her with him as well. Sherlock and he would see to it that she was not forgotten by this babe who was coming into the world half-orphaned. Sherlock would be there, John knew it to his marrow.

John coughed a chuckle as the man himself walked in, hair half-riotous from his fingers combing through roughly. Most likely while on the phone with his brother... he was so grateful to Mycroft at this moment though. He knew the man would do what was necessary.

Sherlock came up once again beside them looking not haggard per se, more careworn really, ready for a hot meal and stout coffee. John rang the nurse through the call button as Sherlock quizzically looked on.

As the nurse came into the room, the young man was on alert, but in a moment, his eyes changed to something soft, more comfortable before asking what he could do for them. John explained that they both needed food and caffeine, if it would be alright to take Hamish to the isolet room, or if he needed a nurse with him in the room.

The young man was easy going, looked over everything and stated Hamish would be just fine with the others in the isolet part of the wing, but that they would need to walk over with him and be scanned before departure.

Safety protocol and all, it was swift. John kissed Hamish once more before Sherlock and he were scanned in as the parents/guardians leaving him in the other nurses care, then headed toward the stairs to walk the five flights to the cafeteria. There they could talk freely, for now they were in companionable silence as they made their way down the stairwell. John had needed the walk, his leg had begun having a bit of stiffness, but this walk would show it who was the boss.

He pulled out his phone to text Molly that they were going to the cafeteria and that he'd bring something to her after they had a chance to talk, if she'd like. She texted him back responding that she was fine and settled with tea from Gregory. He was up there with her now as well. It warmed his heart to know he had such good friends to place his trust in. Such good people who cared about Mary, about him and Hamish. Even with the burden of sadness, he knew he had support, that was indeed something.

Mycroft called just as he was putting his mobile back. It was a conversation he would rather have after his discussion with Sherlock, but as long as the first bases were covered, they could always go and revise later, he knew this. So he had agreed with what Mycroft and Sherlock said about the necessaries, but added that he'd like a few other documents drawn as well in a few weeks once his, no their, life settled into some semblance of normative.

As they hit the final half-flight he instinctively looked to Sherlock as he did all those years ago while on a chase. He was met, quite by surprise, with an open expression of ferocious concern.

"Oh, John." Sherlock stated as he glanced quickly appraising. "You must know how much I do care... for the three of you... not just your person."

"I suspected, but I never-" Heat dusted his face in slight embarrassment and complement. "I hadn't hoped..."

"I love him, you know." Sherlock continued conversationally as he opened the door that let them back into the corridors of the hospital. "He is very... loveable."

Never had John's heart been lifted faster than in that moment. He knew they quite possibly had a chance to survive this loss, he had a chance. A second one. Would Sherlock even understand, idiocy, of course he would.

He had to know the importance. Knew he'd have to deal with John's grief, with a newborn, even though, honestly, he seemed to be doing spectacular in that regard.

They'd have a home together. Hamish would be secure, his son, would be well taken care of and loved more than was right between the two of them. Honestly, he felt a bit manic as he paid for his coffee and meal, but he knew the crash would be coming soon enough, so reveled in it momentarily before it faded.


	5. Chapter 5

"John," Sherlock broke the silence that had come between them. "Are you... what shall we discuss then?"

He, for once, was out of his depth. Sherlock knew this, but he was concerned he might miss some important queue because of this gap in his knowledge. Ever the englishman, he would head forth regardless of the terrain. "I could tell you what I have had drawn up, if that would help you-"

"No, no it's fine. I just needed a minute in my own head you know?" John settled more now, decision made to tell Sherlock everything. God, this was about to get even more painful, but he had promised, and he would never go back on it. "Do you remember when we discussed... your absence? What happened?"

Sherlock now shifted, uncomfortably so. "Quite."

"I... I'm alright, Sherlock, now. But I wasn't. You know that, we're not going to revisit it."

The inhale through John's mouth stirred the steam from his cup, the exhale scattered it as his thoughts clamored for the same sort of spilling.

"I loved you, you know. Mary, she knew then, knows now. She wasn't my second best choice, she was, will continue to be, my own conductor-of-light as it were. As I was to you-"

Sherlock reached tentatively over to the middle of the table, to steady John. Their fingers brushed as John continued to cling to his cup.

"You still are." He grimaced, unsure, giving it up as a bad job, but John dropped his hand into Sherlock's, accepted the small comfort. "You always have been. Ever my friend, my compass home."

This was costing him to admit, but if it helped John, he'd bleed if needed before this was though.

"Al-alright. Still am, thank you. She knew I still... I do love you. That's the long and short of it, really... her last words... she told me... told me to tell you, so that we wouldn't be alone."

"We? Hamish and you?" The machinations of his brilliance began to turn feverishly. "No, all of us. She knew, or thought she was dying. She gave you permission to-" Words failed him at the pure selflessness of the act. "God, love that woman..."

John was astounded as his mind replayed every conversation they had ever had, in that light, that John loved him. Then again with Mary, knowing that she knew, that he was the only one who didn't in the scenario. There was always something. "So, where does this leave us?"

"Baker Street. I want you to move permanently into 'A', take 'C' as your lab. I know you purchased it from Mrs. Hudson, gave her enough to make sure she and Mrs. Turner could be comfortable. It is only your right and extremely fair."

"So, not together?" Sherlock was feeling through the sticky filament of the new area his mind was creating to store this new set of variables.

"No, I figured we'd... need space. But you'd always be welcome in the parlor, in 'B'. Hell, we'll probably be living out of each other's pockets in a weeks time. This just... it gives us space for if I can't... or you can't. It's going to be an adjustment. But Hamish and I, we need you if you are up to it."

"Of course, yes I am." Sherlock knew he was, had promised himself to be there. "I'll gladly take 'A' and set-up the basement flat. Might be fun to test Mycroft's ability to not squirm... start asking him for specialised ventilation and the like. Oh, I like this!" Sherlock's eyes alighted with mischievous intention. "He's going to hate this... or really love this... either way it will make him uncomfortable to feel something." He took in John's serious, but amused expression. "I'm sorry, I've derailed the topic at hand."

"It's alright, I've missed you this way." John meant it too. To see Sherlock aglow like that was a very welcome sight. "Look, we'll... we will hash out our... well the relationship side if there's to be one later, yea? I mean, now that we both... that we both know we... love one another."

Oh, but that was hard to say. To give name to what was between them. It felt blasphemous, something to be secreted,held holy, but never spoken aloud for fear of tarnishing the meaning.

"I feel the same, you know. Naming it feels vulgar," His hand clasped more firmly around John's as he sought out those deep blue eyes in solace. "Not that I am not happy to have reciprocation."

John cleared his throat gruffly, his gaze seemed to have riveted Sherlock, so many things had to have passed through them. "Yea, alright. So papers? I want you added to my will and some sort of guardianship put in place, I expect no reciprocation."

"John, marvelous, senseless John." Sherlock leaned toward him. "It's already been drawn up on my side of things, Hamish and yourself are... well you know how I feel. No point in being repetitive."

"Yes, I suppose so."

John's shoulders slumped, slight tells shot off just enough warning for Sherlock to be right there beside the man, his own chair knocked back with the speed of his movement. The force of everything finally caught up to his dearest friend as he collapsed, Sherlock cradled him.

Molly was shot a text as he moved John to the floor gingerly, his head in Sherlock's lap. His reserves must be spent, Sherlock mused, he hoped it was just the fatigue of it all that finally caught up to John, must be... he'd be just fine. John just needed solid rest tonight and a very fortifying real breakfast in the morning.

Tonight, he could sleep at Sherlock's, it was only two blocks away on Snow Hill. He'd stay the night here with Hamish and Mary, simple. Molly sent Lestrade down to help with John, who thankfully, had come around. Sherlock had explained his idea, which sounded extremely sensible, but John would have none of it. He didn't want Mary alone.

"Greg and Molly need rest too, Sherlock." John had belabored.

"Yes, I am very well aware." This was making him uncomfortable, his skin felt too tight. "Why don't we both go, it's literally a four minute walk straight through the campus. They are right here, if we are needed."

Sherlock did not want to leave either, but he saw no other way to get John to trust the other professionals and go. They'd both miss Hamish, he wasn't going to ignore the fact but John needed true rest, he had been in the accident as well. "We'll get up early and grab real breakfast to bring up?"

"Damn it... I'm being an idiot, but I'm just not ready to sleep... without. I just can't alright?" The tears came, not in a sudden torrent, no, just a slow constant river of loss. "I can't... I have very few nights left with her... don't you see?"

Sherlock did, he just didn't know how to make it any better.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning brought shift changes, just as the morning before. Kind glances, stern machinations of people who would quite possibly never see them again. All of it was made harder by the media attention.

They had finally gotten wind of who had been in the horrific accident, that it had been Dr. John Watson and his lovely wife, made even more juicy by the fact that she had been in labor, that they had been heading to the birthing ward.

Sherlock could set fire to the world and not give another fuck.

Mycroft was now in the middle, deflecting, threatening, blackmailing... whatever else was in his arsenal to stop the oncoming onslaught of paps and idiots trying to get a soundbite. Let the world be razed, damn it! John did not deserve this. He deserved privacy, he and his little family. They deserved better, Sherlock intended to make his opinion known, if he never saw another personal case, then that was the penance. He would not allow the belittling of John's, his, any of their friends grief.

He had been sure to enter and leave by the main entrance, not wanting to draw attention to his residence. Now, he had been extremely happy with that decision for another reason entirely. The reporters and damned cameras were laid in wait, time for the show.

"Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes! How is the family today?"

"None of you business. But your extramarital affair might be to your boss and your husband of 6 years..."

One down, no four. Oh goodie, saccharine words turned bitter back around in volleys to the people in front of him as he used his mind to deduce most of them to shreds publicly. Those he found no fault with he lambasted as the lowest form of almost non-existant life. Bottom-feeders who were out for the blood they had sented in the water. He asked how they would feel if this was their family, their life. Their son or daughter, their spouse ill after a child?

They backed off, but a few did not care, and ignored his words waiting instead to maybe hook an employee or friend for a soundbite of some sort. Sherlock found himself thankful that Lestrade would have a team in place here soon. There was a leak, he and Mycroft intent to find it. Mary could not be moved to a more privatised location and Hamish could go home this evening if they wished, being given a sound bill of health.

John did not need this. He was barely alive himself, his military training had kicked in regarding sustenance and sleep, but he only took the briefest of showers. There was no respite for his friend, his John. They had discussed late into the night when would be appropriate to let Mary go, it was clear she was gone, the machines the only thing keeping the body partially working. John had confided in Sherlock about the first night, why he was settled more about the decision now, especially with Hamish ready for home.

Anthea had set up a nursery in Sherlock's second bedroom, placing his office in storage in preparation for his return to Baker Street. It was the family's cradle bedecked in understated hand-crocheted lace, Sherlock's infant bedding. Then John's grandmother's rocker from the storage, he had yet to go through of his parent's things, and a double bed for John himself. Cozy, a good place to welcome Hamish into their lives the first few days, well after. After after. That is what John had taken to calling it.

His kitchen, a sea of bottles, well five, formula, nappies, powder, all sorts.

Sherlock found it thrilling and funny. He just wished they could be home, but this also gave John time for the women to finish packing Mary's things, with strict instructions from both of them. He knew they would do a marvelous job for John's sake, he had not a worry where home was concerned. No, what was beginning to to take root was worse, after today, tonight he corrected, they would have a funeral. He believed Mycroft was having Anthea, once again, help in this area, but he needed to confirm. Especially after this fiasco at the doors of the hospital, they'd have to make sure there was security or possibly move the burial to their family's home and bury her with his ancestors.

He'd have to bring it up, he knew, but first he'd pass it by Mycroft. It'd be safer for John and Hamish that was certain. Possibly they could stay at the chateau for a week, give John time to get his strength up. Really rest, God he looked like a marionette with most of its strings cut, a bit very much 'not good'. Gregory and Molly could possibly come up with them, she needed to recuperate as well. They had yet to announce their pregnancy. Then again this whole ordeal only began three days ago, it felt like months.

Maybe John would like the idea in a way. Sherlock knew his bones one day would grace the earth there, maybe John would wish to be buried there as well, especially if Mary was waiting there silently for him. He could be laid to rest between them, the two loves of his life. Maybe John would find the thought comforting.

Soon, he'd ask, very soon, just not when he was already right pissed off and liable to snap at the next person who asked 'how John' was. What a stupidly debase question? The man was in agony and these idiots had to keep on asking. No, it wasn't going to get better for a while. Christ, his wife hadn't even passed on yet.

John had barely began to mourn, to feel the bone weary grief. He had warned Sherlock about it, impressed upon him that he would most likely be taking on the responsibility of Hamish more in the first few days. Sherlock was ready for whatever his dearest friend needed. Hell, he'd kill the damned driver that caused the fiasco if it would make John the least bit happy.

For now, telling the media to fuck themselves was enough.


	7. Chapter 7

_Mary,_

_Mary, can you hear me?_

_I'm sorry I couldn't help you, even after the help came._

_What do I do now Mary?_

_I have to let you go._

_I don't want to, oh Lord, Mary._

_Our son, he's beautiful like his mother._

_You'll be with me, because of him._

_What you've given to me, I can never repay._

_Hamish, because of us._

_I love you._

_Sleep well, my most beautiful, Luminous wife._

John had asked to be alone with her before the after. They'd been alone for about thirty minutes when he came out, asked for the attending and Sherlock.

He knew he couldn't have her fade completely and have no one there for him.

John was stoic in everything, but he would need. God, would he need Sherlock. He was his calm in the storm, which is why John knew his life was turned on it's head and gone barmy. John's anchor, that is what Sherlock had become, Hamish his tether.

The two men in his life, the two dearest to him from here on out. Molly and Gregory had Hamish guarded by Mycroft's men in her office. They had discharged him to John and Sherlock, then John had signed the appropriate end of life papers to be filed with the hospital once she was taken off full life support. It could take a moment, it could take a few, however long it took though, Sherlock would be there with him.

In the end, Sherlock himself had asked for a minute with her before everything was done. He had leaned in, kissed her forehead, whispered for a good amount of the rest. He looked up as he patted her hand in farewell and met John's eyes, known he had that had taken in the tableau.

Sherlock came back over where his arms found their way around John's waist, his chest tight against John's back. Still, quiet, in wait for whatever he was needed for. John had witnessed this a few times, being a doctor, having to call time of death more times than he wanted to remember. At least Mary's passing should be peaceful if all went well.

Everything was shut down but the morphine. The silence in the room was deafening, it made even him uncomfortable, Sherlock seemed to hold his breath. John wondered if he had ever seen someone die like this. If he had ever had anyone close to him enough to mourn, or if this too would be a new experience for the man. He himself took a deep breath to calm the wave of emotion that wanted to well up and spill over, no there would be time later, not now in front of strangers. Once she left them...

The time called was at 22:10.

Mary Rose Watson was no more.

It took him time to realize that the anguished cry had come from himself. Sherlock had turned him into a hard and fast embrace, so John did the only thing he could do, break. John hurt everywhere, his heart was on fire for lack of oxygen, he found he didn't care.

The only existence was loss and depths of pain for that infinite point in time. A fixed point, in his timeline, he mentally giggled, the doctor could never come here to this time now. Oh, God! He was unhinged. Needed to breathe, needed control.

"Sherlock!" His voice ragged pleaded. "Sherlock please..." The problem was, John didn't understand even what he had asked for. "'M sorry, don't I..."

"I have you, it's alright." Sherlock just continued to steady him, even as he seemed to be at a loss for words. "We're going to be alright, John."

John felt Sherlock's arms securely around him and heaved in a gasp to force his lungs to work properly.

A panic attack would just not be on, it would only compile the trauma. Hands soothed his back in long strokes, held his head closer to the tall shoulder now stooped towards him. John decided he would take the solace, it was sorely needed.

"Give us a moment?" Sherlock's voice filtered through the fog once again, this time pointedly giving orders to the staff in the room. "Now! You've recorded what you needed to, now out! Give the man some privacy. Where is your sense of decorum?"

"Bless this man," John whispered without sound into the dust grey silk of Sherlock's shoulder, "Bless him."

John felt silly for the uttered prayer that might be heard, but he meant it, to hell with if the man he had prayed for heard him. He lifted his eyes to find those verdigris eyes timorous, a sea of things never spoken.

"Thank you, Sherlock." He continued to hold his friend, tried to match his labored breath to the steady cadence of the one who was holding him even still.

"Never a problem." Sherlock saddened posture caught them both unaware. "I am truly sorry, John, for your loss. Yet you have gained as well. Hamish is waiting at home, he's bound to miss us soon enough, but you have time still, if you wish to-"

"To what? Say goodbye?" Hot tears ran to his chin to land between the two. "I've done that. I just... it's hard, to leave her. I wish... oh, hell... I wish Molly were here. To take her, I mean."

"One better John, one better." Sherlock responded, keeping his arms around John as the soft

rap against the door sounded loudly in the now quiet room. "Come in Stamford. We're ready."


	8. Chapter 8

They purposely left Bart's through the front, Mycroft's men guarded them to the waiting ubiquitous black sedan. Not for spectacle, no, for control. This way, if nothing else, the press would get shots of the aggrieved widowed and recently returned detective as they left.

The paps could follow if they like, but they'd make it a merry chase indeed once the other three cars joined in to confound the situation. Hopefully they'd be back to Snow Hill in an hour after everything quieted down and they had changed vehicles.

This was ridiculous, completely necessary, but they didn't have to be happy or relish the attention from their minor celebrity that was, once again, thrust into the lights of the mass media. So far, no pictures of John's son had been released, and the two intended to keep it as such. The Holmes' family had sworn to protect both John and Hamish from this as much as possible, and by God, they would.

Both men received an identical text about fifteen minutes in to make them aware their vehicle change was imminent, from the looks of the situation a crowded car park just ahead of them. The switch took all of a minute and a half before they were, once again, moved through the city until they would finally head toward Sherlock's flat.

John began to visibly relax in the darkened interior, finally settling his head once again against Sherlock with a comfortable exhale, his emotions quelled for the time being.

An hour or so later, they pulled into the below ground parking. Free of the vehicle the two made towards the elevator for expedience sake. Sherlock was anxious to get John to the safety and quiet, well general... normal... quiet of his flat. His friend had rested against him as the tension of the day had begun to let it's hold lessen on John.

Sherlock was sure the man's shoulder would be riotous tonight, perhaps he could help with that after Molly and Gregory left. Sherlock knew better than to ask while company was still about.

To see John in the state he was in, even earlier, in the hospital. His friend whispered to his wife words of parting, kissed her, all stoic with nothing more than honest gratitude for their time, sheer painful love sweetened the final kiss.

It tore Sherlock in two, to see John... and Mary lose so very much. The cost was beyond anything he had ever seen before, but he knew, understood how it could be quantified. Had he not felt this... had John not already felt this to some degree? This level of loss, that scraped your bones clean then tossed your remains into the pyre.

Yes, they were familiar, but this time they would have each other, they had Hamish. Friends, people who could not yet understand what John felt, but who were much more empathetically keen then Sherlock. This would be good for John, to have them.

Gregory opened the door welcomed them in with a proper hug for John with one arm, in the other a bottle of single malt which looked as if it had come from Mycroft's stores given the label, three glasses pinned in his fingers. "Mols has gone to sleep with the little tyke on the bed in the nursery. Snug and sound they are... how are you faring?"

"Hell," John simply stated. "I've been through hell and revisited it yet again today, I'll take a double. I believe it will be the first of many tonight."

"Gregory?" Sherlock's voice was rusty from the lack of use throughout the day, so he cleared his throat and tried once again. "Do you think you and Molly could stay in the nursery tonight? I'm worried John and I might not be... well, I think it's going to be a late night."

"Sure, can do. Alright with you John?"

"Yea, actually. That way I can grill the both of you in the morning for not telling us about the two of you... nothing like a good foot to the fire-"

"Come to Jesus discussion? You're putting me on!" Greg laughter filled the space before his eyes found Sherlock. "You, you bloody well figured it out and told him didn't you?"

Before Sherlock could speak John jumped in. "Ta! I am a doctor, Inspector. And I have picked up a few deductive skills, so all me, thank you very much. But all the same, congratulations." With that he swallowed the double in one long pull. "Again, please. Then I'm done for now."

Sherlock had begun to nurse his, it was Mycroft's he'd know it anywhere, thankful his brother had thought to have it sent over. He sat on one of the oversized wing chairs, sunk into the well aged leather and listened to the other two men banter about absolutely inane nothings, which he knew would be a pleasant diversion for John at this time. It was good to be here, not quite home, but close enough. Before he knew it, he passed out warmed by the fire and the chatty company.

He hadn't meant to do it, damn him.

'Where was John?' His first thought, "What woke him?" his second.

Both wound up easily answered, actually. John was asleep in the chair opposite him, blankets on them both meaning someone else had covered them while they slept. What woke him was Hamish's quiet mewling. He rose to go get the babe when a sleep-mussed Gregory shuffled past him with a slight tilt of his head in recognition before he entered the kitchen.

"I can do that, Gregory." Sherlock actually itched for Hamish to be in his arms. He found it did not bother him. "Please, really I can feed him... already have done-"

"At the hospital, yea." Gregory smiled then. "Sure, mate. You and he have a previous understanding I see." He clipped glib handing Hamish over to Sherlock's waiting arms. "Right as rain, he'll be with Papa yea?"

"Papa?" Sherlock's eyebrow rose, disconcerted by the notion.

"Well he's gonna call you something you know. I don't think 'Uncle' will quite cover it... nah, that's my job with him. Goodnight, you two."

Hamish had started to kick up his version of a right fuss as the bottle warmed so he comforted him with low susurration against his tiny shell of an ear until the warmer blinked green. Shaking the bottle to distribute the warmth throughout, he remembered to test it before Hamish took the nipple greedily snorting indignantly for having to wait.

Understanding indeed.

Sherlock found the whimsy in those words, against his better judgement found himself smiling into the feel of the word...

pa·pa /ˈpäpə/

noun:

1. One's father

2. A code word represen- Oh! irrelevant in this situation...

synonyms:

dad - daddy - pa - father - pop - poppa - pappy - pater

That meant... well Sherlock knew exactly what that meant. How much had John discussed with Gregory? Did he know how they felt? Possibly John sought advice?

Again, irrelevant for now. For now he had a Hamish in his arms gently swayed by his movement back to his chair. Those eyes alight from the fire and alive with whole pure feeling. One day, one day Papa might be quite fine to hear tumble from those yet to speak lips in regards to him. If John would have it... but they had plenty to go before that was even to come about.


	9. Chapter 9

The pale false-dawn swathed London, pierced through the secondary near-sheer linen curtains of the parlor to fall upon a dark haired man and his godchild. John had awoken maybe half an hour before the light had really begun to filter in, had watched his son sleep peacefully cradled against Sherlock's chest. Up John got, he needed a stretch and by God, he needed coffee. Sherlock, Mols and Greg would be needing something as well.

In the kitchen, it wasn't what he would call bare, that was certain.

Kettle set to brew, he pulled a large pan and began setting up a scramble. This he could do. It felt good to be cooking breakfast, something akin to normal. Bread, jam, butter all laid out on the counter ready to go as his friends filtered into wakefulness by the hiss and ding of mornings that promised to be full, busy in a good humming sort-of way. The buzz of the city not yet quite up to speed, later would become a heavy thrum of traffic and people and decisions, but now... no now was his, and theirs. Quiet home, simple breakfast, simple joys to balm the multitudes of hurts they were all feeling.

Contentment settled around John as he heard Hamish fuss shortly answered in Sherlock's baritone a soft lulling melody being plucked from the air around the two one room over. Mols could be heard shushing Greg through the hall with something of the promise of possible caffeine and sugar and food.

"Morning, you two lovebirds." He had to take the piss just a bit, it felt good but he'd have to keep from becoming manic with it, he could feel the bubble expand into almost panic, took a couple of inhalations of the air around him, his focus on the yeast, and the tannic scent of black tea brewing, the eggs and milk mixing just right in the heated metal of the pan.

Better... he could do this.

He could, he'd hold it together today, with help he wasn't an idiot.

"Morning John," Molly came behind him for a good squeeze, headed to the kettle to see to the tea. "Coffee instead Greg? Tea, right John?"

"Yes, that'd be great Mol." Greg ascended as John bobbed his head in affirmative. "Is Sherlock really-"

"Singing to Hamish?" John grew rosy and could feel the rise of emotion. "Yes, I believe he is." Damn, today was going to go to fuck all in short order. "Actually, I might need some help... you know today..." Is that really the way he sounded? "Bloody hell, I'm a right mess, yea? I'm sorry... I just feel like I'm not-"

"John." His voice was a careful sentiment full of concern. "Gregory take Hamish please, he needs a change and fed." Sherlock walked over to hand the baby to their friends, then turned. "John, come with me, please."

"I'm fi-"

"No. You. Are. Not."

The words were not unkind, just concise. John left the rest of breakfast to be finished to follow Sherlock out of the kitchen, down the hall to end in Sherlock's room. Sherlock closed the door gently behind them then offered the bed for John to sit on, he himself settling on a plush bohemian chair, before he pinned John with his gaze.

"Please, let me help... I need to discuss some things, and I'm fairly horrible, but I'm trying John. You know that don't you? Is there anything you require?"

"I... well I'm not fine, my wife just died." John ran his nails hard through his short hair, anger brilliant suddenly in his throat. "Fuck! God damned bloody kosefil! I can't even..." With a loud groan he threw himself back onto the bed. "Sherlock, I'm losing my mind."

"No, you aren't, you're just at war is all."

It was true, John could feel it. "How?"

"It's written plainly," Sherlock seemed pained to even say it. "But it's expected, it's understandable. Just, this may not make it easier, but I would like to extend a comfort to you. It's not been done, but I know Mycroft is fine with the idea, you're the unknown variable in this."

"In what, Sherlock?" Sherlock moved off of the chair to sit beside John on the corner of his bed. He looked wary and more than a little lost, but there was an achingly genuine demeanor to the man it startled John a bit. "Tell me... God you aren't... you're alright aren't you?"

"I'm perfectly sound, this is not about me. It's about Mary... and you... eventually." The words looked as if they were physically painful for him. "I want to extend our family's grounds to you, the small chapel as well, if you'd like. The vicar said he'd come for the burial and if you chose, he'd stay on for Hamish's baptism if you wished."

"And me... eventually...ok. What about you? Would you be apart of this eventuality Sherlock? We need to speak plainly as much as it... bloody well kills me... I'm not starting off on any assumptions."

"If you wish, yes. We can provision our wills... I don't want you to not be, your body to not be beside hers if it is what you wish. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like that honor as well, but it is in no way-"

"Yes, Sherlock." John heard the tightness in his own voice. "Yes, you as well. I... please..." When was this going to stop, he had always had an iron grip on his emotions. They were scattered to the bloody four winds and he could not get them tethered, he felt listless. "It is kind of the vicar to stay on, yes to that as well. I want Hamish baptised as soon as possible actually."

"Well, good then, it's alright John. You've not only lost a love, but gained one. You're bound to be off balance for some time, it will work out."

"Not gained one love, not only, Sherlock. Hamish is not an only, I gained you as well... Mary loved you both so... she'd never admit it to your face you know, but she would fret and man handle you if you'd ever needed it. She knew it was the only sign of affection you'd ever allow... oh, she was damn bright that woman."

Sherlock laced their fingers together and rested them on his knee. "Alright, never an only."

"That's right, which means you also have to start thinking of us, the three of us, as a unit. That's going to take a hell of alot of adjustment. I'm having a hard go of it myself... Blessed Lord... could you go fetch him for me? I need to... feel him."

"To know he's here. I understand the sentiment... I'll bring him in then fetch breakfast. Give you two some time?"

Sherlock kissed his hand, then bent and kissed his brow taking leave of the bed and moved toward the door, opened it, then stopped his hand still rested on the doorknob, as if unsure to speak further.

"I may not be able to stop what is coming," Sherlock looked down, as if to memorise the grain pattern in the hardwood under his feet, as they moved to pin John once again, his gaze was even though it was much softer than before. "But I can try to shield you for awhile."

The weight lifted in John's chest, a small reprieve he knew.

"Yes... I... thank you, Sherlock."


	10. Chapter 10

They had arrived a week later to the estate, settled as much as they could he supposed, then he saw to the solarium to make sure John's wishes had indeed been followed to the letter. Mycroft had found him there crying, ridiculous. He'd just needed to get the brisk air in his lungs, take a very long walk with John. They'd feel better after. Mycroft had to agree, but he still voiced his concern over the both of them, over the stress particularly that Sherlock was feeling.

He reiterated that he had been under much worse while he had been gone.

They moved the topic to the arrangements for the next day, for Mary's arrival tonight, John's final night with her. They knew he would be down here most of the night, if not all of it, so Mycroft had made sure there was comfortable seating with side tables. He had also informed the kitchen staff that a late night tea would be expected immediately once asked for. Sherlock approved of this provision and added they made sure that there would be service for at least two, most likely three people, in the off chance Gregory joined them.

All contingency regarding media were well covered, so there would be no worry there. The off-site mourners, Mary's friends and colleagues, would be there the whole of the afternoon after the service though. Sherlock would find a way to discreetly move John from the crush of the situation as soon as he could do so.

Hamish would stay in the main house in their room with Mrs. Hudson until either Molly or John and he spelled her. John had decided to keep Hamish cloistered, Sherlock could find no fault in that. He was a newborn, better to have him around less variables, healthy or no it was deep into autumn.

The only ones to be staying in their wing were the three of them, Gregory and Molly. Mycroft would stay in the west wing in his old rooms. Anthea would be in a room close by. Mrs. Hudson would be placed in the old nursery suite in the nanny's quarters in that wing as well.

It was deeper into their childhood home, so not only known well, but safer, more defensible if someone came to start trouble... which who would? This was a Holmes affair though, and Mycroft felt he would be remiss if he didn't give them heightened security for Emma and Hamish while they were at the service for Mary. John was gracious and had thanked him in all seriousness for the gesture.

With that business finished, Sherlock determinedly mounted the stair toward their suite, a small prayer that John might be caught asleep on his tongue. He had barely had any rest, the nightmares had been horrid, but Sherlock had moved them into the same bed to quell the loneliness that John might have sensed, at the very least he was able to stave off a few. He'd keep guard every night if he had to, John's poor psyche was just fractured, trauma on top of trauma landed them here. He would solve it, find a way to help him sleep peacefully again.

In the interim, this had worked about as well as Sherlock had known it would. Easier to get to Hamish so he could take care of him in the night to allow John to sleep. He could also sooth if he was there to catch John's dreams when they veered into night terrors, which they had evolved to, no sleep walking or other disorders seemed to be present, but were a constant concern for Sherlock nonetheless.

He just wanted John to recuperate, build back up his internal stores, fortify himself within. For the first time in his life he found himself wanting patience, learning stillness as he held on to the two people now most involved in his life.

Hamish, ten days old. It was hard to believe, the rate at which he was growing was nothing short of a miracle. The fact it could be catalogued, that he could see a visible difference, was just enchanting. It had exhilarated him the day Hamish came up with a new cry, he had gone immediately to John to share even as the boy lustily worked his lungs, a smile from ear to ear as he deduced what it meant.

John just smiling softly, shook his head and went to change Hamish's nappy, then laid him down for a rest. Sherlock had been correct, all he had needed was a good lie-down, too much stimulation could cause these things.

He had begun to tinker already, marveled at food combinations for later once he had grown some. Sustenance that would be well balanced to support his rapid growth both in physicality as well as in intelligence. He had realized by the end of the second day of Hamish's life that he was done in. This small mewling bundle had sunk him, mortally torn his heart to find a resting place within, then folded it back in place gently to tuck himself in quite comfortably.

It was hard on him, that night, he had to admit to not only protectiveness which was assumed, but genuine love and compassion towards the babe. John could see it written all over, it seemed to make him proud in a way, that Sherlock just picked up responsibility and worked well within it. Co-parenting was indeed interesting, quite possibly fascinating.

Oh, there would be rows between them, and he would always remember that Hamish was indeed John's child, but for now it was smooth, calming his mind into different paths full of new information, possible outcomes, infinity. That would all come later, for now Sherlock pulled himself mentally back to the present. Hamish napped with Molly and Gregory, now he was free to see to John.

Old, acrid well-worn books lined his shelves, the motes played shimmering in the air of the still room where he had sent John to rest. His old rooms, now their rooms. The shift was still slow, but that was fine, neither in a rush. It was all comfort and impressions of a deep foundation that had been laid lifetimes ago, it felt right. John had indeed drifted off, still clothed, propped up over the bedding, his ankles crossed in a mimic of his arms on his torso.

Comfortable. Real sleep. Thank the heavens, Sherlock thought as he slipped beside him for a quick kip himself. There would be no sleep this night, they knew it. Sherlock would be there, however John needed, he would see to it being done.


	11. Chapter 11

John opened his eyes to a lush park, full of flowered trees, the deep green grass felt like moss between his toes. He was in a dream, had to be...it was amazing, this place. Everything seemed just this side of oversaturated where colour was concerned. Whites almost too brilliant, blues, pinks, purples almost glimmered jewel-like as the blossoms danced in the breeze that caressed their petals.

If he had died, he would be severely put out.

It would be the perfect icing on the whole hellish subject, to die while dozing of a heart attack from a broken heart. Yea, the irony would be just marvelous. He'd be leaving Sherlock and Hamish behind... nope wasn't happening. It took him time to take in the full scope of his surroundings, but he did finally put together that he was in some sort of grotto. Maybe his mind had conjured this garden to soothe him after all the spectacularly real feeling terrors from the past few nights.

There was a golden pass in the wind, long hair just peeking through the branches, the shape hidden but he still caught glances as she came closer. It was Mary.

But not Mary.

Damn his mind.

Not Mary wound her way to him, even chose to sit beside him then fiddle with his collar tangling her fingers in the scruff of his hair. He turned at this, smiled as tears fell without abatement. She echoed the turn with her own face, chastely moved her mouth against his speaking in lulling tones of love and always and guardians that would be jubilant one day. His whole body felt as if it were filled with light, with wide-eyed hope. Her hands ran down his arms until they both caught one anothers elbows in a sweet half embrace full of thankfulness and warm goodbyes.

All he had done was blink, in the dream, whatever it was. He could still feel the warmth of her, like his gran's afghan on a chilled night cloaking him, but she was nowhere to be seen as her laughter was carried within the wind that moved languorous across the small meadow. He took in the sweet air, filled them once again before closing his eyes once again to will himself awake.

"John...John." He heard his name, knew it was Sherlock. "John, please..." He wondered if he had been thrashing about, what would cause that tone of voice. "I know you can hear me, wake up now." Oh, God, if Sherlock could sound any more nursemaid.

"'M wake... still wasnit dreme... srry." John slurred out as his body tried to catch up with the situation. Being pulled out of REM was always spectacularly difficult on him. "Oh! Sherlock! She was here... well not, here. In a grotto... it was amazing!"

"Mary?" Sherlock looked confused. "Well, she is down in the solarium, which is sort of an indoor- irrelevant. I'm glad you slept peacefully. I'm sorry to wake you, it's just that dinner has been laid and Hamish has to be missing you."

"Yes, I suppose," Groggy still from the abrupt wake up, John ruefully smirked. "About dinner, not about Hamish... how is he this evening?"

"Same as he was earlier, fed, dry, and content it seems."

"Good, good. Well let's go get the boy shall we?" As he curled his body to stretch as he sat upright, a thought occurred to him. "Sherlock do you believe lucid dreaming is possible?"

They discussed the merits of studies and kept it all as academic as possible, but at the end of the day, John could not shake the feeling of the existence of where he had been in his dream. He knew they'd have to perform experiments, but if it kept him from the night terrors he'd been having, he'd try just about anything. He slowly finished his meal, pleasantly surprised that Sherlock, had indeed, joined him to eat. Sherlock blamed it on the conspiracy of the cook and Mrs. Hudson to 'plump them up' while they stayed at the manor.

Hamish was his quiet, soft self as he rested on John's arm while they took tea before everyone else headed for bed. Mycroft stayed the longest, finally given into the urge to pepper Sherlock with questions for the finer particulate issues in the final documents regarding the estate and his other holdings which then pulled John into the discussion of the more salient points. John had never heard any of this, the Holmes family discussed plainly. It was fascinating.

Mycroft, weary, finally looked to his watch and told them it was swiftly rounding to one in the morning, offered to take Hamish to Molly, then left them to their task. John's really, Sherlock didn't need to stay with them, he'd do alright. His heart had been just a tad lightened since he woke from the dream of Mary, he was settled somewhere where he hadn't been. It may not last forever, but he'd take it over the weary ache that had permeated to his very soul. In time, it would take time, he knew... somethings you never fully accepted or got over... like losing someone the first time on the field, being invalidated home, but good had come of it.

And then bad, very bad, then better with Mary in his life. Brilliant when he was told he was going to be a father. His light might be diminished, but he had a little being that relied on him, and Sherlock, for single thing. Sherlock, he was another twinkling of hope, he was here and alive. Practically worshipped his son, loved John, more than John was rightful to have. Dearest Mary, she had known him so very well, she had known the darkness of a different sort though, even as she dispelled every filament of darkness with her warmth. To him, it was not unlike how he imagined the Light of Earendil. Glorious hope abiding.

His best friend, sat with him now, to watch over this luminous being. The feel of death, the non-existence that occurs was no different in her case, he had felt it eight, no, nine days, possibly, ago that night he felt her still, the part that was her soul before it departed. He may not be a deeply religious man, but he knew there was indeed something. If a person could intuitively feel another person's electromagnetic-id centered-noncorporeal-ness in a multitude of ways, then know when that spark no longer resides in the flesh? There was more, just there out of reach quite possibly. He'd allow this idea to solace him in the long of it, that maybe she wasn't lost, completely obliterated, maybe she's scattered to the stardust, the infinite from which we derived from.

Oh, he was waxing poetic, and it was so very late.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" The man didn't look up from the large tome he had in his lap, instead cocked his eyebrow, allowed his reading glasses to slip a nip. "What is it, John?"

"I'm ready. She's fine here... I can, it's ok. Let's go up, shall we?"


	12. Chapter 12

Stone walls warmed by the candles that had been lit in memory of others gone before greeted them as one of the house staff opened the old wooden doors. The Vicar preceded the best men he had ever known and their most precious burden, John followed singularly behind eyes straight ahead. When they placed the coffin on the aged stone altar for such purpose, he stepped to touch the whitewashed top then sat with Sherlock and Mycroft in the first pew.

Once settled, the service was begun. There was discussion of the corporeal death that we must all endure, and the comfort that those left behind who mourned received. John made to stand, after the vicar stated he would be giving the eulogy. He spoke of Mary's grace, her steadfast belief in truth and working for the good of others. In the end, he thanked her for her time with him and their newborn son. As the vicar exchanged spots once again, he squeezed John's arm lightly in comfort.

Teach us to number our days, that we may learn to apply wisdom...

After the closing, everyone in the little chapel headed out to the gravesite just a little ways down behind the building, while the pallbearers once again donned their gloves and raised Mary to their shoulders. The small group of men headed out, this time with John preceding them.

We now commit Mary's body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

We leave her in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life…

One deep red rose followed by a multitude of yellow were placed as the coffin was lowered into the private churchyard for it's final place of rest. John silently sent up a prayer that asked forgiveness and thanked whatever may be out there for his wife, his son, and his small group of friends. He was thankful to be alive, even if struggling with loss, because it meant days to look forward to with his son. He dared a glance at the white top as it was being covered, the others wandering back towards the solarium with the other guests, only Sherlock remain by his side. The vicar clasped John's shoulder and spoke to him in whispers of condolence and succor before he moved off, the manor his destination as well. He leaned his head toward Sherlock's shoulder, instead he was met with a half-embrace with fingers ghosting through his hair.

"My very strong, John." Sherlock was rough with unshed emotion. "You are amazing."

"And through her lifeforce and there goes our friend..." John giggled at this, lord knows why, tears ebbed in the process. "I'm amazing? Hardly... but you, you and Hamish, and everyone... you've all been wonderful to me. She was wonderful."

"As Hamish will be, as you are still John." Sherlock pulled away, just enough for their eyes to meet. "Ready to go inside?"

"Yes, quite." He giggled again, coughed to stop them. Oh this was going to be... difficult.

The two men loped across the grounds to follow the crushed gravel path through the gardens, John felt as if he needed a few before he went into the crush of people inside that would most assuredly ply condolences, words of comfort, embraces or hand shakes, or other things people did in these circumstances. He found the two of them entering the far west wing through a study, far away from the solarium, even further from Hamish. For some reason, this made the space between his shoulders itch in apprehension, what the hell was Sherlock on about now?

Hell, wherever Sherlock went, he'd follow... at any rate at least they were away from the press of others. Silk was between his fingers as he loosened his tie followed by the unfastening of his collar button, he'd become hot for some undetermined reason... had to be the brisk stride the last yard or so before they entered the manor. Sherlock seemed unphased, but when did he ever look anything but in control, it wasn't often. Next, with the twitch still bothering him he went to undo his waistcoat but thought better of it.

"Are you sure you are alright? You don't have to... go see the people here. You could stay in our rooms, I'll fetch Hamish? We could have a light early supper?"

Sherlock must be worried if he was trying to nanny him. Christ... he must be a bit more of a mess then he realized... and speaking quite plain, he really did not feel up to socialization of this sort, all sad eyes, rehashing the accident, Mary's death- no that would not be a good place to be... he had just found some semblance of even. No, maybe this was the right of it.

"Yea, fine. I'm off to the shower... go see to Hamish?" With that, John took his leave.

In the room, John silently shut the door to the bath. He just needed to center himself... to breathe. It had been an overwhelming thing lately, life. Enough to drive him a little more than raving, to the point he didn't know what direction up was. The shower needed to warm, to heat quite a bit actually... odd the water felt so chill... couldn't be helped. His waistcoat hit the tile floor with maybe a bit more sternness than was needed for the occasion, but damn if it didn't feel good. The rest of his clothes found a similar fate, the tightness in his chest full of aggravated sorrow unyielding.

Water pressure is too good, he mused, cranked the handle as far over as it would go, finally stepping into the spray once he'd grabbed his toothbrush from the counter. Might as well get it all done, then back...

He had to take several deep breaths, finally dropping to his knees on the slick porcelain. Weight compressed on all sides, his face cooling from the tears extorted from the emotional torture he'd endured since all this began. The pressure was so fucking demanding, throbbed through him, it was all too much, every bit, not even the sobs that wracked him until it felt as if his bones might dislocate were enough to assuage the heat of despair. Nails ran through hard on his scalp, the need to pull himself together as oppressive as all the rest.

Thin lines, seen but never noticed by others became his preoccupation to soothe him. Thighs pressed wider apart, he touched them, caressed the fine yield of tissue. It had never been enough to warrant stitches, just enough to avoid a full break. It had been so easy then, would be easy now. There was no tremor present, no worry of an accident... he was past suicidal ideation years ago now... but this... it would become addictive. His control. He'd control this one thing in his mad, mad life. Only once was a joke, it'd be like Sherlock's bloody cocaine.

His own seven percent solution...

"Mitherfookenba'heidit..." He cursed softly.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock had heard it as he entered their rooms, the sobs had to be echoing off of the walls to sound so loud. For once he had no idea what would meet him on the other side of that door... Hamish, he had to have Hamish safe first, then John. Loath to do so, he texted Mycroft.

John compromised.

Please collect Hamish immediately.

Twenty-four seconds later he received the reply.

I am on my way.

Anthea is readying my study.

Hamish was asleep, blissfully ignorant for all else. Sherlock found himself thankful that he had not woken, but John was quieting, that was worrisome. The soft tap at the parlor doors was immediately followed by Mycroft's entry. Grim faced, worry obviously etched into his normally placid features forced the air to catch in Sherlock's throat. He handed the baby over immediately headed toward the bedroom and ensuite, closing and locking the interior doors behind him. Hamish would be safe and cared for until Sherlock could get John to rights.

What greeted him once he opened the ornamental doors was a sight he'd never be able to erase, John in foetal curl, on the bottom of the bath lukewarm water drumming him mercilessly. His skin looked scalded in places, others just losing the pinkish tinge as the shower cooled. This was not the John he knew, strong steady doctor full of contentment and surety. Doing the only thing he knew to be right, but his friend would loathe later, he lifted John physically out of the bath and in a bridal carry got him to the bed. Covering with half the duvet, Sherlock went and grabbed a stack of towels after he turned the taps off and stripping off his own shirt to add to the clothing already piled in the en suite.

"John, John it's going to be alright." He found himself affecting useless platitudes to evoke something. "I am here, I'm just going to dry you and get you into your sleep clothes." It was worrisome, the fact that John had yet to respond. He was only semi-aware from the reactions so far, Sherlock was in a near panic, his mind riveted to the issue as his heart beat wildly in his chest. He had expected something, any sort of permutations to the stress-charged situation, but not this. "See, not that bad. I'll just get your clothing."

With John's things a few steps away, he moved with a purpose. Get John clothed and under the warm bedding as soon as he could do so, he had already begun to shiver. Unwrapping him from the duvet, Sherlock was swift as he pulled John's boxers on, even so, he hesitated mid-pull as he felt them, thin precise... He catalogued this new information for later... then followed with the pajama bottoms. "John... please." It took a few moments, but once he was satisfied with John's placement under the covers, Sherlock spooned behind him half-dressed still from the funeral. He couldn't be arsed to care.

"I'm so sorry John." Sherlock categorised what he had felt in the silence. Six ten centimeter long scars, all fairly thin but the tissue itself thick so possibly cut multiple times on same area after healing had been completed or almost so. Very controlled, scalpel, ten to twelve years old hypothesised, more recent disturbance of the flesh within... three years. Smoothness suggested proper healing and wound care. "It's going to be better. You know I'm no optimist, but we are here together, Hamish is alive, he's a part of you... I had no idea..."

"You weren't meant to." His voice sounded hoarse, abraded. "I... it's personal Sherlock... I never knew that... well no one's really noticed other than Mary and yourself. I've been, careful, not to let other partners... doesn't matter. Sorry you had to see... it's fine. I'm fine."

"You could have killed yourself John," Marvel and dread filled him. "So controlled, is this why? Control? Absolution? Release? Most certainly not sexual gratification-"

"Just please stop. I'm not one for your deductive nitpicking this time-"

"John, I'm not!" Sherlock huffed hotly into the room anger towards himself and the outlying emotions that began to well too close to the surface. "Well, I am a little, I can't help it. Its so incongruous with what I know of you."

The man he had been coming to see as his; his friend, his moral compass, his own luminous being. Something this self destructive, it was beyond the pale. He had wondered, just had a blip of concern for him when he met an invalidated army doctor in the labs at Bart's, but then John had proffered his mobile, reached out. He still chose to tease the man, wink at him cheekily possibly raising his ire, most definitely retaining his curiosity. Never since then had he seen any sign that this might be occurring. It did explain why the limp went swiftly away, the need for adrenaline assuage. Why John would rub his thigh if deeply angered but stifling the emotion, he had observed the behavior, but thought it a different sort of response.

"Did you... while we were sharing? Did I ever drive you to?" Sherlock's voice steadily quieted at the thought.

"Do you remember how astounded I was over the trounce of the flat, that first night? The trumped up search for drugs when you looked nothing of an addict. Yet even as I stood up for you, you asked both patience and for an open mind in one look. I accepted that, you. As you were and are. I'm asking you to do the same here with me, now."

John still did not answer his question, but asked trust of him, obvious.

"Always, John just... talk it through first if you could... before that type of release?"

He wouldn't stop him, but he'd be there, just as John had been on those terrible danger nights when the black dog bit and he had no reprieve from the stupidity that availed mankind. When everything had grated and chafed grit-like against his very being, even the air in his lungs an afront. John was there, making him talk through it, asking him to play, going through ages old murders, engaging him to keep him from using.

From his own brand of self-injury, his own recklessness and squanderous attitude of a life that felt too heavy, too fetid, John gave a brilliant beacon of nothing more than abiding, genuine concern to right Sherlock's course once again. John needed that now, he would see that this man who meant so much to him would not want, he promised that to himself when he had finally been on the way home. Whatever John needs, when it can be given would be.

"Tell me what you need, tell me." He asked hushed by the wealth of the emotions that filled the space between them. "I'm here. Christ, John, please. I'm genuinely-"

"Just shut up you mad fool... hold me. Let me rest here... with your lanky arse," His voice still held so much, possibly could be deciphered, but for now it could wait. "Just stay."


	14. Chapter 14

The arms around him warmed his skin, he wanted it to warm so much more. It was all too much and not enough and everything at once. He barely could exhale without a hitch to his breath. He did not deserve this, any of it, not Mary then, nor Sherlock now. If he hadn't... then Mary might...

But Hamish.

Hamish.

Fucking idiot he was, wallowing, not able to control his own damnable emotions, his reactions. Sherlock here, spooned against his back, held him as he drifted against a sea of desperate anger at himself, hopelessness for their situation, for Mary's death. It was on his hands, no one elses... just as Sherlock's false suicide. That too, that was because of John, he could have taken out Mrs. Hudson's sniper. He was there... could have alerted Lestrade so very easily with a text... then gone to Sherlock's side to face Moriarty. But no, he had been too slow, not put it all together. Not even until close to when Sherlock was able to come back, the reports in the news, the things that began to give John validity to his fragile hope.

Mary had been so very kind, resourceful helping him scour back further, but tempered his blind faith gentling it into a singular purpose. Helped re-hone it towards finally clearing Sherlock's name. She, herself, finding glee in taking down Ms. Reilly a peg or two personally handing over all of the evidence to the woman's editor and announcing she had given the exact same to the other three lead publications and have fun trying to bury what a lying slag the woman was.

Then he was indeed back, John so grateful to have both people he loved in his life. But now, now he had two, but it wasn't the same. He couldn't get his heart to work right, it wanted to feel everything, and God, how wrong that was. Mourn for Mary while coveting Sherlock's form in his bed. He wanted to shag him to the fucking ground... it wasn't right. It wasn't fair. He'd waited, should still wait, it was just ridiculous pent up ephemerial... he'd not bed him. Not for a long while... it wasn't normal. He'd just be taking advantage, Sherlock would probably do anything to soothe him. He was just frustrated, needed a release.

Not a harmful one.

Just something, more. He wouldn't though... John refused until he could give freely, without the deep husked out portion of his heart still broken. He knew better than that... just Sherlock being here should be enough. It would have to be... wouldn't it? He felt like he had whiplash, his emotions were too damn chaotic. He needed solace from his own internal noise now, how wonderful. His knees came tight against his chest, he needed... as compact as possible... close it all away. Better to bleed on the inside anyway, right John?

Sherlock was here, sharing the exact same air, inhaling their own particulates. Should be enough, he's whole and warm and alive. Willing to work with a widower just as he had been an invalidated officer. He took in the broken because they were the outsiders, whether or not he admitted it, like Sherlock himself was on the edge of society. Then he came, broken, suicidal, therapist... PTSD, psychosomatic issues. A present wrapped in a shiny bright bow for the man. And how that man unwrapped him, tugged at each loop with singular purpose until it was loosed... fixed. Reintroduced the feeling of camaraderie, of tribe. The battlefield of London their playground. John remade, without thanks to his friend... he never had... and here the same man was here again to pick up the parts of John that were the most brittle. The ones close to shattered, barely useable, but still Sherlock saw something.

Why was none of this enough to pull him from the gnawed-to-the-bone depths?

It was, it should get better, not worse.

He needed Sherlock, his strength to lean on... it wasn't enough... how, when would it be enough? Christ, what John needed he had no right to, not to ask, not to demand, none of it was in his right... none of it. Instead all he felt was the build-up that had never left, he needed to, wanted to forget the world for a while, just for a blip. It was so wrong... was it wrong? To look for comfort... to demand it... to be resuscitated using someone else's moist breath to fill your desperately dry lungs? to feel someone take over, to make you feel again... something other than this... this God forsaken agony. He'd done it before to relieve stress, he fucking needed it.

Sherlock had to understand, he himself used to be an addict, still was in a way. The need for the high of a proper case, the silky sweet feel of the chilled wind across their skin as they were in pursuit, warm buzz after it was over. He'd have to understand, to see that John needed this like he needed gravity to hold him together in one place otherwise he'd be fettered to the four winds or dust at his friends feet. He rolled himself to face Sherlock's chest, held tight. The skin to skin was something his numb crackling mind needed focus, he felt the shared heat and placed his cheek to Sherlock's chest... his friend's heart as tumultuous as John's own.

He wondered if this was how Sherlock felt.

His heart felt fickle... weak... battered. How could he do this?

Falling was like flying right?


	15. Chapter 15

The kiss was sudden and hot, it knocked Sherlock off-center. Now was not the time, nor was this the place, he knew that. Knew John knew that. Little by little he broke their lips apart, raised his head to tuck John's forehead at his cheek even as his arms tightened around John to show he wanted the contact as much as he.

"John."

Not so much a statement, nor a question, just his best friend's name. Someone he loved dearly raveling apart seeking solace. This was just screaming 'WRONG' and 'a bit not good' and other adjectives as well he chose not to give mental voice to even as they buzzed through his consciousness. John though had coiled himself tightly to his body shivering with... what? IF he had to guess, which he loathed, possible shame/confusion/guilt with a side of wanting/craving. The need for physical touch... being touch starved... the craven desire to feel alive through copulation with another human being.

This brought him to a crossroads, did he indeed, continue this sans discussion of the finer points of why this should possibly not be done. Should he possibly embarrass John, or humiliate him for pointing out what he most likely already knows. This all seems rather instinctive, yet it is clearly driven by his passions. And God, did his mouth feel wonderful.

"John- are you, do you want this?"

"No, I don't want this," John's hot breath ghosted over the shell of his ear. "I fucking need this. You... I need you. I'm falling apart... I can't... I have to feel you... fuck you... bleed-"

Sherlock stopped him abruptly with another kiss. Keep his mouth busy, try to find a way to shut his mind off, it was too much for his dear John. The man was not equipped to handle the stress in this particular scenario, or maybe they were all coming too 'at once' for him. Sherlock's return, Mary's death, his single parenthood; he had most likely never thought of these scenarios so outside of the norm that they were. Now, here he was, his John, unraveling at the seams and begging for something, no, for him to give John succor... release and relief.

"I don't know if I can do this for you." How he hated the words that were spoken. "This could ruin so much. I know you don't-"

"Shut. Up." Apparently John decided the time for words was long since over. "Sherlock, Christ, just shut it!" His aggression bubbled ever closer to the surface. Sherlock hadn't seen the likes of this in their entire friendship, even when he cold-cocked him after he first revealed himself. "I need something for fucking once... Please..." The broken plea amidst the violence of John's open admittal stabbed at Sherlock quite deep. He was lost to his own maddening of sorts, John needed grounding. Even with the knowledge this would most likely be a mistake, not the act, but the timing, Sherlock enveloped his friend in his arms fully accepting the teeth that had been worrying the side of his mouth... his bottom lip. He'd let John tear him to pieces if it meant it would build him back up again.

"I need. Something from you Sherlock," John mercilessly tasted, took his mouth fucked it deeply with his tongue. "It's too much... say it... tell me... you're not going to fight."

What could he say to that? He'd never...

"No, not going... going to fight."

Sherlock surrendered only so far, he realised that John needed to feel control, but also the fight to maintain it. The physical manifestation of want he was going through internally. If it would help him lay his demons down, so be it. John moved over, possessing him, ripped at his clothing growled in frustration until he tasted Sherlock's flesh. It seemed to sooth him, the skin to skin. Borrowed warmth rushing steadily through him as John set him on fire.

John was gripping tightly, he'd have bruises by morning. He found he didn't care, it became only about them, about his John being so beautifully broken then healed again through whatever this was they were forging. Sherlock's hands finally moved against the sun changed skin, taking in the rigidity of the muscle beneath, to the scar that never will fade, to the finely corded neck reveling in the feel of it all. The soft short hairs, not as coarse as he imagined, but more populous, dense. He allowed himself to rush along, to be swept away with John's needs and wants. Let him take everything, splay him, fill him, anything to make John feel relief.

"Not afraid of this...John-"

His air cut off by a firm hand on his throat, the other opening his trousers, yanking everything before he was swallowed, still half-hard. His entirety in John's possession, the forceful suck and pull wrenched a hoarse cry, then a tighter clench at his neck before a swift release, the hand still rested there. The world tilted as John took some of the run off saliva to slick his fingertip, pressed against him until he gave and cried again, John holding him this time until he began to see stars from the multi-sensory overload more than deprivation.

More movement, Sherlock's trousers and pants found the floor, John's singular finger becoming two. His thumb alternating between a rough press against his testicles to his perineum, working Sherlock into somewhere he'd never been. The lightening of orgasm, the over bearing pressure on two fronts, yet no completion... God, John was masterful.

"Gorgeous, you... are fucking so-" John's voice seemed to surround him as he spoke around the deep pulls he was taking to bottom into his throat. Sherlock had nothing but wracked muffled noises to respond with; John holding him still pinned between galvanized hand and ingenious mouth. Forceful release, soft constraint that was calculated built up as Sherlock struggled clasping at John's body begged with his hands as he wasn't allowed his voice, or possibly John enjoyed the harsh depths it was coming to. Graveled and strained he cried out for more wordlessly, lolling his hips in anguish as the pleasure tipped on just the other side of pain, the sweet razor edge of endorphins whorling through him to ease his muscles into lethargy, as his heart raced along sped by his natural high.

Tidal shifts, deep and meaningful tore at Sherlock further. Just as he lost control, breath going arrhythmic, John loosed his cock from his mouth finally settling between his thighs. Few more serious plunges of his fingers, then emptiness followed by wonton half-thrusts into the air as John positioned. Then he was there... they were there... they were.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock was a resplendent as a god-damned angel. No one else would have understood, hell he didn't even quite. John just knew he needed all of him, wanted to take Sherlock apart, open him up and play inside his body until he knew every organ intimately. Oh, he knew where they were, could close his eyes and see where they belonged, but to see Sherlock's heart beating still within his chest. His bones laid bare for John to carve litanies and hymns of devotion... of my love I could devour the world for you to keep you from harm leave it to ash under my fingertips to see you without pain... yes, it would be beyond the pale. This though, here, this was enough; it would have to be.

Overload was the purpose, John needed the control, he needed to hold this life in his hands because he could. His own personal Occam's razor, as it were. Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate... Christ, but if it could be. The duality of the two of them had only become clearer to John as his grief had increased. Two sides to a coin indeed. Now he had Sherlock, but their places had been flipped, he was now the madman taking his best friend apart piece by piece.

His thumb bruised into Sherlock's throat, the thrum of his pulse and his voice caught up into John's hand. The feeling of it, it was heaven... Sherlock alive... breathing... he closed off the airway because he could, but not for long. A few seconds to distract, as Sherlock came too close to going over, John wanted to enjoy the feel of his cock against his tongue... taste the bitter,sour precome burning his throat for just awhile longer. Sherlock grappled against him using his hands to speak for him, they told of want, of desire mirroring his own.

As John pressed into him with his finger Sherlock's breath stuttered. He was immediately taken with the heat, the taught pull of semi-slick skin, the saliva-preejaculate combination just enough to gain entrance. Purposefully teasing the muscle from the inside, pressing into his perineum with his thumb, then pressing further into the man he was in full control of. John fucked him sweetly with his finger, twisting as he entered rough, slowly pulling back out. It went on for ages, until his own cock was fever hot and pooling sticky lines of his own against his thighs. Two now, John's preejaculate this time... just a little of himself... absorbed into Sherlock's very skin, his interior, hot and promising. Sherlock had begun growling, whimpering fucking himself into John's mouth and on John's fingers. His hand begged and clawed at John's shoulders and back, finally his sides as he pressed Sherlock's knee to the bed widening his hips, opening him, pressing back into him with three this time, twisting yet again, this time at both push and pull until Sherlock cried out, wordless with blatant need. John brought himself to bear until just the tip of himself was breaching, his own breath hitching at the emotion that began flooding back into him.

"Christ... Sherlock..." He needed so badly and had been taking, stripping everything he could. Now here they were, about to go where there was no return as far as he could see. "Oh, Sherlock... God... please are you..." A bit late to begin asking things now, but fuck was he open and pliant. "Please answer me... I-"

"Yes... please... don't stop now," Sherlock gasped beneath him. "Take everything, John..."

Fuck.

He had been tired of feeling nothing, and here was being given everything. As John looked between them he could see his scars against his flushed skin, could breathe again. Crystalline clarity came to him as he moved his hand and caressed Sherlock's forearm where he knew the oldest scars were, raised his hand and kissed it as he thrust himself into the wondrous man. Tears came unbidden as he held those most precious digits against his cheek, the cup of Sherlock's hand against his mouth still kissed, then murmured against. Everything he was sorry for, every one of his transgressions, the blinding wrathful need his friend had suffered for him.

"I don't want to..." John cried into Sherlock's mouth as he pressed against him releasing his friend's arm. "I never meant to... you have to be here..."

"I'm here John, Christ take me." John felt Sherlock shudder, could feel him draw taut. "Please... John can you... please inside me..."

Sweet salty sweat beaded, kissed away by John from Sherlock's forehead. "Oh, God, yes." John would deny Sherlock nothing, not in this he had already pushed himself onto his friend, as willing as he seemed it was still Sherlock. He canted, lifted Sherlock until he found the correct press internally, tried to stimulate as well as he possibly could. Sherlock in turn gripped at John once again, this time at his wrists as he prayerfully revolved John's name over and over again until it became a mantra, background for the cresting they both felt. Terrified and stripped, John cried Sherlock's name as he came, plunged deep within roughly bucking through as Sherlock tightened reflexively, ivory ribbons coating his stomach and chest.

The aftershock, minute twitches were nothing in comparison to the high John felt. It was fucking other wordly. He bent, pulled Sherlock up, licking the ejaculate off as he brought him to seated in his lap, still joined and kissed him. Christ, let him be struck down this moment, he'd die content.

"Sherlock?" John questioned softly as he broke the kiss and looked into Sherlock's eyes for the first time since he'd begun this little fiasco... this entanglement...

"Yes, quite John." Sherlock's hand were framing his wet face. "I love you, too. We will work on it, alright? You're going to be fine."

"Me? What about... I took-"

"Tomorrow John," Sherlock kissed him deeply, pulling them both back down onto the bed. "We'll talk then... please don't pull away. Don't hurt yourself unnecessarily, promise me."

"I... I don't know if I can." He curled up against Sherlock crying all over again. "I can't promise... I'll try... it's a compuls-"

"Settle down, it's understood." Sherlock held him close, adjusting to make them both comfortable. "Cocaine, remember? Sleep, John."

Late into the night, as John slept, Sherlock's mobile glowed, his fingers flying across the screen.


	17. Chapter 17

Fitful sleep was becoming the norm once again, this was not helpful with a newborn to take care of. Sleeping, in general, had been a battle of it's own since Afghanistan, but waking the way he did now, still enveloped in darkness? This was the worst sort of feeling, everything non-existent until his eyes adjusted. John's mussy-headedness cleared in an instant as he saw the empty cot not three feet from their bed.

"Hamish." The name held a worried quality, as if the babe himself, might have been a dream.

"Safe. With Mycroft... well, possibly Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock wound himself around John not allowing him up. "He's fine... you're fine. Get some rest."

"I'm not fine, Sherlock. I've... I've used-"

"Incorrect." Then softer the next words as they were placed close to his ear. "John, I'm fine... I care about you, you care about me... it was angry grief sex. Please do not be in a mood over this."

"Then tell me exactly how I should feel?" John sighed in frustration.

"Well, I would say content, but we both know that's not exactly true." Sherlock murmured.

"Of course it's not... I took you... and you let me. I don't know who I should be angrier with!"

"How about neither?" He kissed the shell of John's ear, wrapped his fingers around it's twin and pulled lightly. "You needed, I wanted to be needed. We both enjoyed a reprieve. End of."

Sherlock watched as John's thoughts crossed his unguarded face. It had been an experience, but it was quite wonderful, if not what he normally would prescribe to. He had loved John for so long, he was deeper than a brother or friend... he existed. The weight of John's life settled at one time as a match to his own as they had run hard and fast, both giving everything to The Work. Sherlock had known it had meant sacrifices in his life, but to see someone else pick up the banner, enjoy the game... it had been unparalleled.

Then Sherlock had died so that John could live. His life of little consequence, but John's? He could make all the difference one day. Now he had a son and was a widower... this time though he'd have anything he needed, Sherlock owed him so very much.

"John," He rolled toward John, socketing himself in the space that had been between them. "John, please... I meant it." Sherlock breathed him in deeply. "I do love you."

"You can't... you're not built that way remember?" The words, not meant to be cold, still stung.

"Obviously not true. I can love, feel emotion you know this, you've always known."

"Not what I'm-"

"Are we going to discuss the salient points of my sexuality? Now?"

"Sherlock... damn it man... just... please shut that mouth of yours. I just know this is something that isn't in your realm-"

"Can be... has been," The heated rush of emotion coloured him in a flush. "Not as fervent...as amorous, but I knew what I chose last night. I chose you, us." He'd sacrifice everything to not have John doubting them this early on, even his pride. "I'm fine John."

This time it was Sherlock's mouth meeting John's, the weight of what he was trying to convey heavy on his own lips. His own fingers threaded to tug as the flaxen hair as he took his friend deeper into the blazing kiss. If he had to he'd burn into every corner of John, send him to ash to be reborn until the knowledge of his worth was charred into the man's very marrow.

"Then how... just... how does this work?" John gasped and shuddered as Sherlock kissed a line down his neck. "I'll not take advantage ag-"

"Didn't. Adult. Chose to go with you." Sherlock continued the light kiss to John's pulse that thrummed with life. His words sporadically broken between the feather light caress of lips to skin before he claimed another heady kiss. John's sleepy demeanor pushed into wakefulness, Sherlock made their mutual nudity known by the brush of his hip against John's thigh. "Choosing to do so now."

"Not yet..." John broke away enough to speak. "It's alright Sherlock, I believe you. You don't have to prove anything. I'm... just worried about you... us...last night was-"

"Intense?" Sherlock nuzzled in toward the warmth of John's neck. He still could scent the sex from the night before on them both, the acrid heavy laden air stirred as he shifted them together until he was softly pressed against John's navel. The memory still fresh, the taste still in their mouths. The smile that played on his lips filled him with warmth. "Otherworldly?"

John chuckled at the obvious jest. "Well, that is one way to describe it, I guess."

"There are a multitude of ways, John. I just choose the positive... you should as well."

"Bit hard to, Sherlock," His friend sighed deeply. "I refuse to let our... relationship... be compromised by lies... even little ones. I want you still, God, I want, but not like this. You don't want it this way either and you know it." This was expected, this was response to the manic physicality of their pairing. Sherlock knew this had been a possibility, but had not been prepared for it to overtake him as well. "This... the sex... it's amazing. Will be better later, I promise... when our hearts are in it and it's not just a grungefuck due to grief and anger. I'm the one with experience in this area, yea? This though, this is... wonderful. Just holding you... I never thought I'd-"

John was unraveling again. Sherlock could feel it as he unwound slowly in his arms, dissolved against him completely. The tide of anguish and sorrow crashing over them both, weight of the last eleven days tumbled full force unchecked and reciprocal. Edges blurred, turned grey within Sherlock's vision. It was all white noise and warmth, acceptance and misery. Joy tempered in the depths of absolute darkness. He breathed in once again, his focus solely on John.

"Shh... shh..." He murmured. "John, you are safe."

He, was admittedly not himself this morning either. Everything that had transpired the previous night would simultaneously embarrass and please him, torment him until he resolved the incident that had occurred. The fact that he had allowed himself to be owned, to be used in that manner spoke of many disconcerting things. Doing them for his partner, his friend, the best man he had ever known... was that enough against the facts in the cold light of clinical observation. Oh, it had been very willingly done, and done very well.

Heat bubbled within him, anger swift and righteous. Sherlock tried to let it go. Their love had been born before this hopeless place had been, this could not be denied. Would not be denied... not to John nor him. This transgression that occurred would not break them, Sherlock would not allow it. Overwhelmed with worry, his fingers found John's chin, raised it to reverently look into his eyes, his hope to convey what was stoppered within him.

The tears tracked down John's face, his wide blue eyes glassy, the whole of his world in his eyes. Desperation, terror, loss flickered in the illumination of his very soul. How does one mend someone so rent, so torn? The movement between them incremental, unsure and quieted from the previous meetings, Sherlock wanted them to choose this this time.

"May I?" Two words barely spoken.

Slight nod of assent, pale lips touch ones roughened from worrying from teeth. Settled through his bones as he wrapped John with his love, poured concern as balm, gave John, in the kiss, whatever he was willing to accept. He'd fight for John, he was half of his whole world, but he had to know he carried no blame in the events that had transpired. None at all. It was Sherlock's choice to give of himself, something he had never had the motivation for. John was his truest friend, he prayed to whoever might listen in intercession fervent hushed prayer that he'd see the hopeful lover one day.

Those poor unkempt fools who never prayed to this alter, himself included, were squanderous. He may not be a God, may not have such a thing as forever, but in this... in this he would give all. Lay his beating heart in John's hands if it would but bring him alive again. Momentum changed within the kiss, still slow in tempo, but the whole of earth's gravity seemed to press them into exploration of one another.

This. Nothing more, everything else.


	18. Chapter 18

_Oh lover... the winds they change... do you feel it too?_

Fuck. He was going to cock everything up, he needed to not do this again... it made no matter that he was skin hungry... starved as a cannibal... he'd be content with this. He refused to become consumed again, to use Sherlock... no... they were both more than that. But then the kissing and the soft mouth against his, sweet movement of tongue against his teeth... greedy again... so greedy... but every caress spoke of beginnings. Movement against his relaxed stomach spoke of intentions that could lather them frenzied or to be ignored for a more transcendental joys.

John's bones ached to a molecular level. They were tired.

This was precious tender care pressed into his being, kept his heart from forgetting how to keep rhythm... what a talented thing it was. Sherlock held him, content. This was what he needed to feel as well... Christ... he needed hope, desperately. Thankful for the press of their skin, the slide of his fingers against Sherlock's chest and its smattering of dark hair. He could be content, like this, just this way... anything else would be too saccharine. He could smell them, their mingling from last night... every brush of skin, even his hands smelled of them. Depth and breadth of them... time... he needed it.

But first... this... wandering...

"Sherlock..." In his voice the warning he couldn't convince into articulation. "Sherlock I-"

"We're not going to do anything John." Warm baritone washed over him. "Just this."

"Just don't let me go yet, yea?" His lips carelessly found Sherlock's once again.

This was madness, this conflict inside. He was a thirty eight year old army veteran... he'd seen the best and the worst of the human condition... had to have an iron will and control over himself. For this to cause him to come apart, to want to harm himself, to rut into Sherlock like it meant-

"I'm so sorry Sherlock... I... I sh-"

"We are not visiting the topic again." He responded. "It's done. Moving on..."

Moving on they were.

This, what they were building between them felt different, less broken. He tried to push his consciousness to beyond the two of them, but he couldn't be found to care. Possibly because he knew Hamish was safe, possibly because he was detached a bit due to depression. All he knew was that this was what kept him afloat.

"Hamish?" Sherlock breathed his child's name. He could hear the layers of emotion laced within the singular word.

"Soon. Not yet." John tried to burrow deeper into Sherlock's embrace. "Greedy."

He'd be alive on borrowed strength... his determination could be fueled by this. Burn off all the grim fetters and visit the light for a time until he could live within it again. The chuckle from Sherlock was felt more than heard.

"Again, like father, like son." The warmth in his voice glorious.

"Alright... a meal of some sort," When was the last time he had ate... he couldn't remember things properly. "And... our... son then?"

"If you are ready John. Hamish is here for you when you are ready... he'll not forget you, you know... if you need more time, that's alright too. You need to heal, John."

"Then, what could be better than having the two I love most with me?" He felt a weak smile cross his lips. "Besides, my arms miss him. Sentiment, I know-"

"I miss him too. We've missed a whole day... so much..."

"Shh..." This time it was him who soothed. "Not very long in a newborn's life, yea?"

"I don't need to be coddled John!" Sherlock intoned, but there was mischievous intent, not heat behind it. John could work with this... this bolster of affection and semi-normalcy. "Let me get the babe so that you may cuttlefish someone else for a bit."

"Cuttlefish?"

"You're all arms and legs and wrapping John... it's quite nice... Hamish will enjoy the contact, you know. He loves the skin-to-skin-"

"Kangaroo? Most infants do... but for us you've chosen cuttlefish?" John laughed for the first time in almost two weeks. "Next we'll have other words... names for things!" It felt so good to laugh.

"No baby speak John, you know you abhor it... as do I."

"No... no... have our little cuttlefish brought to us, yea?"

Sherlock kissed him and smiled. "Yes John... Hamish will be amongst us shortly. Cuttlefish!"


	19. Chapter 19

Days slowly drifted into a week. The reality of Baker Street loomed both hedge dark and wick bright on the horizon. Molly and Anthea had dealt with the arduous task of Mary's things, most going to women's shelters. They left the picture of John and her from while she was still heavy with Hamish in the baby's nursery, their wedding album tucked into the bottom of her hope chest, which now resided in Hamish's room as well.

They had also had it redone to mimic Sherlock's flat, all sage and blue and cream. The only thing that was left the same was his furniture. They figured it would be nice for both rooms to be a similar as possible, that way it would always seem familiar. Sherlock and John decided to keep the flat close to Bart's instead of it being listed. If they had a case and had worked long hours, or Sherlock needed an office, the space would be there for just that purpose. They also gave Greg and Molly a key for if she wanted to take a quick nap comfortably, or if her morning sickness was too much. It was the first token of many that John and Sherlock had both decided to give in thanks to their friends.

Mrs. Hudson's flat had received a similar transformation, minus the soundproofing that John had jested about once Hamish found his lungs. Sherlock would hear none of it... well, rather he wanted to hear all of it. It was true though, soon they'd have separate homes, seperate beds. It would be different, but they were ready. If they wound up falling into a bed again together, they both decided it would be not out of mourning, but because they genuinely wanted the other there.

The lab would take some work, the reno had already began, but true to Sherlock's prediction Mycroft was simultaneously happy to help and driven mad by his sibling, chalked a win mentally in Sherlock's favor in their little game. Honestly, it had never seemed likely, but John got the sense that Mycroft and Sherlock were beginning to heal a bit themselves since Hamish came into their lives. Mycroft had expertly picked up the banner of unclehood... he seemed to genuinely care for their little bumble. He himself had caught the man holding him to lull Hamish to sleep.

If Anthea seemed to pay close attention to the fact as well, John didn't mention a thing. Mycroft was better with people with Sherlock and just as observant... it would shock him if Mycroft had missed the hidden glances... or they were just that... a tell loud enough to get noticed? Let the two lovebirds figure each other out, if that is what it was... John had long given up on puzzling them out.

So home to Baker it was, for the three of them. Tonight, though, was dinner with their friends and a bit of snuggling with his son... their son. John marveled at how much Sherlock had undertaken for Hamish and him those first three weeks... and since they had been here at his family manor. It meant so very much and deserved every... well almost... every want fulfilled the madman might ever have whim to ask for. Most assuredly forgave parts in the fridge... well, there wouldn't be need in his kitchen he supposed... John would figure out some pass system or some great gesture one day to thank his dearest friend for the kindness that had been showered over him and Hamish, until then, life would resume. Had already done.

Their relationship, them... just the thought contented him. He knew they needed time, but one day maybe he'd be willing to ask again. He was open to the civil union for legal purposes, and they would discuss that at length as well, very soon if John had anything to say about it. He may be a widower, but his greatest loves lay ahead, not behind. He'd always cherish Mary, dearest soul, and knew it was her wish for him to be happy again one day... reminded him... her last spoken words. God bless and love her soul, keep it safe.

Baker, their home... his home... so many memories and so much love.


	20. Chapter 20

He had to get it, the riddle was how. Possibly Mycroft? Of course, one of his lackeys could go pick it up, but then he'd be asking Mycroft for something yet again. At least he had the sense to have his very own christening gown and John's christening blanket brought from their respective storage before Hamish's baptism. He would never admit it, but the pride he felt as he held his Godson wrapped in both his and his father's swaddling clothes... it had overwhelmed him. Mrs. Hudson needlepoint of Hamish's initials added to both items had been the perfect gift from her.

To stand up there, take these vows, these silly little words he'd had to repeat were really nothing in light of the depths of love for the child. John behind him, his hand over Sherlock's to cradle Hamish's sweet head as the water, dipped then poured over his dark furls of downiness. It was not quite hair, the softness that begged to be stroked. The baby's starlight eyes worked to focus after the first bit of the warmed water touched his head, then to watch Hamish wrinkle his brow just so... so much of his father present as well.

So curious, even now. So trusting.

Then to come back to the main house for a bit of white cake, for John's friends that he trusted to come and coo over his son. Wish them well, not a mention of the dark days from weeks previous, just hope and genuine affection. Molly and Greg especially lightened the occasion as they told Mrs. Hudson why it was that Molly was having no champagne. Then a round of congratulations from their mutual friends. It had been a very fine day for the Watsons.

Now, last minute packing, dinner in a few hours and he found himself out of sorts.

No Hamish to care for, no John to banter with, as they were both taking a kip in the nursery. Sherlock had the time, though limited, to handle this. The knock at the door jarred him out of his internal monologue.

"Come." He called.

"It's me." Lestrade stated. "Came by to give you a hand and to drop something off to you... Mycroft stopped me on the way. Said you might need it?"

That damned insufferable meddling... damn.

Sherlock found he could not find a whit of heat to the interior banter.

Doubly damned.

"He do it again? Figure something out you didn't want meddled?" The smile was obvious in his voice.

"Yes..." Sherlock was loath to admit. "He, once again, has come to my aide... but I am thankful." This brought a pause to his words. "Greg..."

"No need mate. No need." Lestrade cupped his shoulder. "Anytime, yea? Well, not anytime... but you know. Anyways, I'm off to kiss my wife and take my leave. See you at Baker in a few, right."

"Yes, we'll see you soon."

His body hit the soft bedding as he laid back as the door closed, once again alone. Alone, but not for long... he amended to himself. The weight of the small package, like the vows from earlier, seemed too small in comparison to the actual depthless abide. Words... yes words... they did bind though didn't they... he wanted to be the words... to be read like one of John's most favorite careworn novel. Wanted to be ingrained in his memory... brought out often anyway... the feel of his paper committed to John's fingertips... his passages lovingly tumbling whispered from John's lips.

This was it. The moment... he found his heart thrummed exultant. This... this is what needed be done between them. He could find them, the knowledge to spill his dedication within his reach... he just needed his desk...

Thank you.

Going to give tonight.

Before.

But after dinner.

Might stay, might not.

~SH

I'll keep the rooms ready.

Privately?

~MH

Obvious.

~SH

Nib flew over handcrafted paper, a declaration to be read. For John's eyes only... for his blogger... his best friend... this. These small tokens of affection... he should write small ones once they got home... those sticky ones John is always leaving about. On the door, the mirror when he awoke... the door as he's leaving... the milk! Oh, this would be... he could...but later... this was for now.


	21. Chapter 21

As dinner wound down, they found themselves settled in the smaller downstairs study. One last brandy, small discussion, then home. John had wanted the time to discuss their evolution, Sherlock wanted to pull John off of the self imposed tenterhooks. They had their whole lives to work this out, for now to give it breath, to give it a solid place within them... this was Sherlock's hope.

Folded in on itself and sealed with his family crest, the page full of sentiment for the man that sat beside him in quiet contemplation. To break this would be sacrilege, silence, reverent and pure between them. Only interrupted by the crackle of wood, the flutter of warmth, of light. His body in motion as words formed, yet unspoken, his knees hitting the soft carpet beside his John. His hand raised in offering, the simple letter... those silly words. The vow unspoken.

I want to tempt you away from your heroic  
silence for joy that is free and foolish.  
I want to weave these early stars  
like a rope for you to hold  
and make your way past your old  
hurts, faiths crumbling like dust.  
This wanting is not a nebulous thing;  
it is the soul desiring its other self  
where need knows no hindrance of words.

I have only this longing, this reaching;

the necessity of you.

Not enough, too little, the words... such depths he plumbed to come to this place...he still felt inarticulate. Sherlock cast his eyes down to his now empty hand, rested on John's thigh, the vellum still weighty in his sense memory. Intake of breath, tears audible as they graced the letter he had handed his... closest to his heart... there was not a word yet to express that was not rankled or garishly horribly wrong. This man he kneeled before, was the best man he knew, had ever known. John deserved more than he, Sherlock knew, but they both knew that love and this deep abide had a life of it's own, didn't they? Who was he to deny it in the face of John's earnest heart?

A tentative touch on his cheek raised his gaze back to John, the whole of creation in his eyes. The astonishment was the most prevalent, open trust and affection close behind, for him and his motley writing skill, as well as his person. Warmth spread through as he dipped into his pocket and brought out the signet as he looked askance toward John. The cool metal heated quickly in his hand, the firelight catching the masterfully filigreed fluting. No stones, light ornamentation, it had been used for personal correspondence only... fitting Sherlock mused.

"What's this then?" John's voice caught. "Please explain... you've... you're frightening me a bit, yea?"

"I'm frightening... John... listen. Did you not read? I know the words should probably be spoken, but you know we are both horrible with it." Sherlock appraised, gazed openly before allowing his emotions on the subject to be visible. "John, I love you. I expect nothing and at once everything from you, you insufferable beautiful man." He shifted, sat against John's leg in supplication of the need to touch, to gather strength from his friend as he went on. "Jean-Baptiste Severin Holmes... this is his signet. He was my great grandfather, and from what I am to understand a very formidable man indeed. It was by pure chance that I even became aware of this years ago... he used it for his personal correspondence between only he and his wife, Aliénor. Mother found it and had it properly stored."

"So you are-"

"Yes, I am asking for your hand with a token from my family with their well wishes... well not your hand... more a promise. This, all of this, is going to fall away once we return to Baker. It will be hard on all of us, I am not naive and neither are you. The world is going to crash in on us, the three of us... might be a bit hard to breathe."

Sherlock ruffled his hair with his hands in frustration. "I wanted to give you something to remember this, to remember us... when I'm not by your side... if we are ever separated again-"

"No." John rebuffed. "Not going to happen. I'll not lose you again you daft idiot! What makes you think... no. It's just us now Sherlock, the three of us." John huffed a laugh. "JSM? I see where the meaning for us is different the-"

"Sentiment, John... my sentiment. A hopeful one."

"You sure?" Concern laced John's voice. "I know we spoke of it... we know... you are so... damn it Sherlock." The smile was timid, but the hand guiding Sherlock was sure. "Fine. I'll have the ring... but as you said... this is a promise between us... yes?" John's mouth was on his, the sweetness of the brandy mingled with the heat of the unsaid behind every caress. "Then you're mine as well now... promise... only mine."

Flooded and overwhelmed, Sherlock broke against John as he raised into his lap. The tears unbidden and lovely, mingled with their kiss. They spoke more than he could ever hope to in their lifetime... John understood, held him tightly. Eventually they would break apart, be at Baker for the first time in ages, a trio settling back into everyday life...but for now, this last moment was solely about the two of them.


	22. Chapter 22

Early days at Baker were not so terrible for John, as they settled, the home settled. The first night they had been exhausted, thankful for the comfort of familiarity. Hamish stayed with John, in a small cradle, Sherlock on the couch. The man hardly ever slept, John knew this, but once the third night came around he knew they'd have to discuss it. He didn't want Sherlock to feel as if he didn't have a place... the man had rarely set foot in "A", the lab was yet to be finished... he knew it was more... their dance always had been a complicated one. This though, after after, shouldn't be... this was now, not the past.

He'd been invited to share Sherlock's bed while at the manor, Sherlock now rationalised his arrangement to proximity for both Hamish and his sake. Here the two of them were, almost fallen back into old patterns of their brand of polite avoidance. No, he couldn't allow that, there was more, they had promised... it's not that he hadn't wanted Sherlock in his bed... he wanted to give his friend space. Which was probably exactly what Sherlock believed he was doing as well...

Too familiar, this.

No, this was not allowed to fall by the wayside. They were adults, had admitted how they felt... this perfectly hateful polite distance had to end. He shifted, the weight of the ring on his right hand reminded him of comfort, of new vows yet to come, the emptiness of the bed, not so much. There was a person he promised to love until death did they part, which he had. Another he'd promised to share the rest of his life with, but what did he expect? Sherlock to just waltz into his old bedroom, now John's and take up residence, as he would have... but now... now was different. The boundary blurred, both of them seemed to not want to suffocate the other.

John couldn't breathe, the air seemed stale with motes of desperation too heavy for the intake he desperately needed. The smell of Sherlock was nowhere to be found here, yet John found this completely unacceptable. This man... his best friend... his companion... had risked everything, his very life, the Work... he stained his soul, dipped it in the blood of lesser men... then came back. Accepted everything gracefully, even then still loving John, the good man had finally arrived... John was not blind to this. Now, even now. Mary, Hamish, the blessed letter and that promise... the heirloom now lovingly placed on his finger.

He had begun to cock this right up... of course Sherlock didn't know he was welcome... even though to most it would be obvious. John had spoke of Sherlock's excitement, the return to Baker and his flat, his lab... what an idiot he'd been. With the fire banked in the parlor, Sherlock had to be uncomfortable, even if he hadn't mentioned... oh now, this was really... they were not going to be this way. Hamish snuffled as the bedding shifted, but stayed blessedly asleep. John took this small moment thankfully.

It was time to set things right before they got off any further.

The door shushed, the temperature difference noticeable between their room and the rest of the flat... yes, this was right. City light illuminated the dotty old lace curtains, the glow cast over the parlor to give an ethereal quality to the room, all washed in a light cider coloured glow... except Sherlock. Sherlock had always been the exception to the rule in all things. Even now, the man looked desperately still, as if he was laid in state, rather than asleep. John realized two things simultaneously.

One, Sherlock moved himself in such a way that his feet were pointed towards the door... which he never did. Two, he had a pistol John had never laid eyes on before rested on his torso, his hand lightly rested to cover the grip. His stomach clenched as things came together in lightning speed... Sherlock was guarding them... in his own way. The side door to the kitchen had been replaced with a false bookcase and only opened toward the first floor foyer now. John had seen to it a month after Sherlock... well, it seemed better to have it hidden from plain view. One point of entry was more than enough for the soldier in him...

"Stop woolgathering John..." He whispered to himself as he gingerly sat on the coffee table beside this most precious man. He owed Sherlock so much... even more than he had guessed at obvious to him now.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was tenuous at best. "Sherlock... dear... God please... wake up..."

"John?" Sherlock was instantly alert, sat straight up to look John in the eyes. "Alright?"

"Thank you." The only words available, but right as well. Christ, he'd never thanked him... or had he? Heedful of his rampant emotions, John lowered his gaze, took Sherlock's hand. "Come to bed, Sherlock. Let's get some sleep... Hamish will be... before we know it."

"You're shaking John." Sherlock's voice seemed to wrap him warmly. "May I... what can I do?"

"I need you with me Sherlock, it isn't right... doesn't... isn't... damn it! This is bollocks." His body tensed as he reigned in control. "Please, come to bed... our bed?"

"Our bed?" Concern etched his voice now. "It would be better if someone-"

"No. Sherlock. No one's coming to take us away... we are home now... please come to bed. Leave this behind... the past remember? We agreed?"

"We did." Sherlock's grip tightened. "We also promised to take care of one another."

"This is me taking care of you, Sherlock. Of myself, of Hamish... this is childish... come sleep." The crisp parlor had chilled him, he needed the warmth of Sherlock, the warmth he had missed without realisation. He stood, pressed his lips to Sherlock's sleep mussed curls, then pulled at him until they were holding one another. "I've missed you... I'm not going to hide the fact."

"I've... missed you too," Sherlock nuzzled into his short cropped hair. "Missed this."

John led the way towards the kitchen, "Then, come to bed..." Peaky cries began in earnest as they reached the bedroom door...their voices must have carried... damn. Later, he'd lay with him later. "I'll get Hamish this time around..."

"I have a better idea," Sherlock smiled. "Go get Hamish changed and I'll get his sustenance. Get into bed with him, I'll be right there."

"I'll not co-sleep... what if one-"

"Hush, John." Sherlock replied. "We're both awake, I am at least... Hamish will be back in his cot before we sleep."

"Fine." John resigned himself, but smiled all the same.

A proper cuddle with the three of them... might be nice after all. A quick nappy change later, his little cuttle was lying in his arms still all a fuss as Sherlock eased under the covers, bottle in hand. Hamish locked onto the sight of it as John eased him up a bit. Sherlock teased the little nip's mouth to encourage a better lock on the silicone, smiled brightly down at his godson as he tucked right in.

"Jesus, he's famished, isn't he?" John laughed. "Look like that latching on issue's gone finally...

he just wants to kick up a bit is all, isn't that true? Taking after Papa already aren't we?" John caught Sherlock's gaze. "He's turning into a prima-"

The look of open affection and love caught his breath, Sherlock practically radiated.

"Yes John?" He responded to the aborted conversation. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Fine... it's all fine. God, you two are lovely is all." It was true. At this point, Hamish looked more Sherlock's than John's... dark hair, but still newborn grey eyes that had just begun to turn dark blue at the edges as Hamish reached his first month. His first... "Sherlock..."

"Yes, John?"

"Hamish, he's almost a month...how did..."

"Time waits for no one, John. I do agree though, he is quite beautiful." Sherlock finally met John's gaze, the wistful look still present. "Soon it will be Christmas... imagine... his first snow... transfigured by the fairy lights...his little mind absorbing it all."

"A proper Christmas for us, yea?"

"Just so," Sherlock kissed Hamish's temple, his eyes alight. "Just so."


	23. Chapter 23

Winter finally on them, Sherlock bundled Hamish before he wrapped and secured him in the Didymos. The solitude of the city seemed to press more, the world gone grey, fallen away. To him, his points of light, of life have focused to a few brilliant points. Guide points against his own brand of darkness, danger nights of a different sort.

He'd been more careful, clients were now scanned through Mycroft's screening process, he had no need to feel the rush of the chase, if the chase meant involving Hamish, involving John. He couldn't responsibly do that. The dark haired babe swaddled to him cooed, played with a button. Without thought, he brought his hand up to cradle him a moment. This, him... Hamish... who would have known? Such a small thing could tectonically shift a life as his had. No, he could not endanger them, well, not his Godchild, nor his Godchild's father.

John, the soldier who incidentally was also a doctor, Watson was a killer. He could, without a blink, end a life if morally necessary. Probably knew from a tactical perspective as he entered a room every exit, everything that could be used to defend himself, what could be used against him. He also had a keen eye, though now a civilian, he hadn't used it unless his heightened battlefield senses were triggered. Which is one of the reasons Sherlock's plan had worked... but that was then.

John, the widower who also happened to be a father, shook hands often with his doctor self. Quite regularly since returning to the surgery at Bart's on a part-time basis, he had even contemplated opening his own practise as a real possibility in the next few years. Sherlock would always support John's wishes, but this was domesticated John. The father who had a caring and deep abiding friendship with his companion with whom he was co-parenting. The widower who was still in the winter of mourning in the deep at night when the terrors came now about screeching metal and torn flesh of a different sort.

Fuck anyone who tried to peghole John into boring or normal or mundane. Who tried to sneer at their choices or were confused by their relationship. The paps had finally quieted down, but it had taken far longer than either of them had liked. It was no one's business, not even their friends what their relationship was. John and he had chosen to share their decisions with them, it was still their choice, though. Even today, only three people knew of the ring's true purpose... it would have been two... but Mycroft would have figured it out soon enough.

And here was Hamish, six weeks old, tied to him physically being walked through his Papa's city. They were very careful about shielding the child as often as they could, they wanted no pictures out if possible. This too, would be a difficult battle, but so far none had shown up other that grainy telephotos of John and he outside of a cafe, Hamish swaddled as now against Sherlock. That carrier had been immediately relegated for home use only. Hamish enjoyed the ribbons Molly had sewn into the seam on that one, Sherlock had said nothing more than it would help him build hand eye coordination, he'd left the thanking to John.

What worried him, in the long run, was John's need for adrenaline, which he did still have regardless of his age... bollocks that trite response was. His own need for puzzles and the adventure had been placated by the bumble, but for how long? How long would it be until the two grown-ups would need their own brand of playtime? These were the things he needed to get a salient beat on. For all their sakes. Could it last until Hamish went to Nursery?

Their relationship, that too was full of more questions than answers.

John, Three Continents, Watson had seemed to have retired as well. John seemed content, but he was a sexually heightened, giving lover based on previous data, their encounter notwithstanding. He understood that the grief had taken it's toll on his John, but he had always had needs before... Sherlock knew all of John's habits... this was so outside the realm of his knowledge base, though. Had his libido simply turned off? Had he become closer to demi-sexual perhaps?

All the affection was there, on both sides, which Sherlock was more than content with. Drowsy kisses, the lazy snuggling when Hamish was taking a kip; this was marvelous. To be able to hold John was a miracle... but he was concerned that he perhaps lacked something for John to seem so completely disinterested in 'the deed'. Sherlock himself admittedly hadn't been very keen on it before, but men had always given him a thrill at times... women not so much. He had found himself in a dream recently, John's experience come to bear against him. Even now, he felt warm with the thought of John against him, open to the thought of this, as well.

What to make of it?

Stupid posit, he knew what it was all about.

Maybe it was time to discuss it, let John know that he was receptive to the idea, that he'd like to follow that trail... the white rabbit... the chase... a different type of rush? It could possibly substitute for the times they felt they needed... more from one another. Yes, he would love to give back as well, show John he is loved. So improbable and needed and regarded highly in his heart. Isn't this what acts like this were supposed to be for? Not the meaningless fuckery that was going on en masse at any given moment all around the world?

It would mean something between them... more than.

Romanticising... this was a bit not good.


	24. Chapter 24

John had been off shift for exactly two minutes when he ran into them in the corridor. Others who wanted to ask how his day was or how his family was or is whether Sherlock was on a case... Christ, they could seriously bugger the fuck off. Couldn't a man get a bloody shower around here so he could get some dinner with his family they were so keen on knowing about?

That dealt with... his professional, although not internal, decorum intact... he whisked to the showers to get clean, get dressed, and meet Sherlock and Hamish for spot of food. God, he was famished... what he saw here could never put him off eating that was for sure. He'd been watching a bit lately, as they weren't as physically active, but he'd weighed in at under what he was before Sherlock had gotten back so no harm done yet.

"Fuckin miracle... thank you, industrial hot water heaters for the water I am about to use..." John laughed to himself at his own little joke. In Helmand, they had either the river... not great... really bad at times... or a ration in a basin most days. Yes, they had spigots of a sort, but he'd never wanted to get out of his kit and get the piss taken out of him on a three-day-a-week basis. But never was there hot water, cool tile, and clean soapy air... the minute you rinsed dust would kick up... oh an awful mess. So his love affair with this one civee thing... the shower... had been born.

Sherlock had yet to deduce it... made him chuckle again... the barmy man... his man.

He'd heard they'd finally started scaling back a bit, that the camp was seeing an exodus... bet those boys... and girls... couldn't wait to get back to their one creature comfort themselves... Godspeed to them.

He hummed off-tune as he cleaned off quickly. John had thought he'd still beat Sherlock, just barely, to his old flat if he hurried, he really should have gone there for the shower but... well, his affair... "any ways John..." he spoke to himself to motivate his speed just a touch more. The towel he had grabbed was hospital rough, no surprise there, but in a way that was a secondary creature comfort he supposed. Reminded him of his far-gone past and his not-quite future.

Hamish... his boy's future...sweet cuttle.

Drying as if a demon were going to whip him, he wicked the last of the water off his head and went to his locker. Damn, it was going to be good to have a well cooked meal and his child in his arms...

The clothing in his locker, this was something new, as well. Sherlock had taken to purchasing gifts early... which was rubbish, John knew what was going on... he'd had enough girlfriends in his life. He didn't mind though, the items he had picked out were quite exceptional in John's mind and very comfortable. He rushed buttoning his shirt and threw his jumper over in a flash... trousers, shoes... then off he went. He grabbed his messenger bag, coat, and palmed his mobile to send Sherlock a text as he left the lockers. He'd made excellent time indeed.

The question of Sherlock though, not as his friend... but as his partner had been niggling at him as of late. He'd still miss Mary deeply, but it was hard to mourn when you had such a bright faced baby in your life and friends who surrounded you. Yes, the nightmares were awful, but they always had been... he had promised her he'd live and so he was. Christmas, at least the beginning of the season had been terribly rough, but as Sherlock predicted, even being as small as the cuttle was, the lights and music seemed to enchant him the couple of excursions they had made.

Now they had a tree, fairy lights, garlanding... the parlor had been transformed. John and Sherlock's chairs as well as side tables were still there by the fireplace, but the other half of the room had been emptied to furnish Sherlock's flat downstairs. They'd decided on an ages old couch that was about the same dimensions as the one Sherlock had claimed to fill it's space, but other than that, it was all tree. This would also be a good place to stay, furniture wise, as Hamish would be crawling around before they knew it. That's the way of things he supposed... even now there were little changes he noticed just by not being there every day.

Which brought his circular path back to the man he loved. Because, that was what he felt... more than. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were saints in this regard... they loved Hamish as much as he did and knew John needed the time... just the few hours he'd picked up to still feel useful and bring in a little extra income. That front, had been an interesting one. It was no Western front, but it had been tricky for a moment. John accepted that they were partners, but he had always been sufficient... these clinical hours went a long way as well in the community in case he opened his own practice... but this wasn't about him at the moment.

It was about his little family. What would make them happy as well, he knew it. As for now, they were all content, and that was what mattered most. As he reached Sherlock's old flat, he reached for the keys as the door opened. There would be time later to think on things between the two of them... how best to go from here. The elevator ride was short and before he knew it the key was in the door. When he opened it, they weren't there. Hadn't been... should have though. He checked his mobile and there were no missed calls or texts so he shot one off and waited a few... maybe his times were off and Sherlock knew it would take a bit longer today so he left later.

Five minutes later there was still no answering text.


	25. Chapter 25

Lestrade received a call thirty minutes later, told John to go straight home, that Molly and he'd be right over. Mycroft sent a car, told him not to worry, there would be a logical reason for Sherlock and Hamish not being there... John thought the two of them might have gotten distracted, but Sherlock always answers him now... there hadn't been a time since he'd returned that this had happened.

There were no answers two hours later. Panic began to run through the flat, caused the thrum of heightened emotions, of long disused military precision to snap back into focus. Gregory and he had the map of the localised area spread on the wall... like previous cases... their normal walking route pinned in redstring, the two alternates pinned as well with white. Nothing was out of order at either flat, so there was still nothing obviously wrong, other than the two simply not being at the right place. It was still enough that Gregory called Donovan and Dimmock to see if they were on shift and asked them to swing by Baker.

The tactical team had gone through the area and had found no items of Sherlock's, nor that he'd left Baker other than the CCTV footage, even that had blind spots. Hamish would have missed a feeding by now, and the temperature itself would be an issue as well. John was wondering if he should go out himself with Greg to look, maybe someone had missed something, not being as observant... not knowing Sherlock... Christ, what the hell was going on?

Molly had popped down to "A" for a lie down, the emotional state in the flat was just too much at the moment, John understood. Greg gave her a peck on the lips as she headed down the stairs, John returned to the maps, woke the laptop after he decided to try to use the GPS to find Sherlock's mobile again. Wishful thinking, even he knew it took more than just turning it off to disable the damn GPS...

"John! Greg!" It was Molly. "JOHN!"

The two flew down the stairs and into the ground floor flat, Molly was on her knees visibly shaken, crying clutching a grey and white length of fab- blood was-

"Oh my God..." John's heart stopped. "NO."

"Now, John," Gregory was visibly torn between his wife and his best friend. "Let's not jump... fuck all! Sally! Phillip! Get down here now!"

John moved over to her, wrapped his arms around her shoulders. "Molly, that's... we both need not to touch anything, yea?" His breath came in short controlled huffs. The whole place had just become a possible crime scene. "Greg, it's not much... It's been cut off... I just can't tell which way-"

"Easy now, John, we'll figure it out. How's about you take Molly back to our place, yea? I'll pack you something... maybe we can all stay at Snow tonight?"

Dimmock and Donovan were at the door, perplexed at the scene in front of them.

"What's this then, John? Can you identify it?" Dimmock asks.

"It's Hamish's cloth carrier... you tie it to yourself... Sherlock prefers these. Reminds them both of the kangaroo care while Hamish was in NICU... I think... he says it's more secure as well. This was the one he wore out most since that incident with the paps... less conspicuous of a colour than the teal they both prefer."

"You mean Sherlock, actually was using kanga for your son... quite often?" Donvan seemed shocked that she had actually voiced the question. "I'm... sorry John...just-"

"Yes, Sally, he wears him almost all the time, as he is our child's primary caregiver when I am working." John sighed as he realised his wording. "We are co-parenting, before anything is assumed... he is Hamish's godfather and his mother, my wife, knew this would most likely the outcome of... you know... not relevant to you at any rate. What is Phillip," He turned to address Dimmock. "Is that Sherlock and Hamish are missing. My son and my best friend. The cloth is one of several Didymos that we have to 'kanga' as I've just explained. It also looks likely that it was the one Sherlock chose to wear out this afternoon. I do not see him doing an experiment with these... "

John knew he had become a wreck. He quieted, squeezed Greg's shoulder and offered Molly his arm to help her up. She handed the fabric over to her husband before she gave John a soft hug, possibly to reassure him... possibly herself... before they left the Met's finest to it. He didn't want to, but he knew they had a job to do, they'd be in the way. He'd come back when Mycroft's men took over... for now John steered Molly down through the ground floor hall and out into the frigid night air. Sherlock and Hamish were alright, he knew it... he'd just need to be patient... maybe the homeless network could be put on alert somehow... he'd find a way.

The sleek black sedan waited for the two of them, the door already opened in an inviting manor. He couldn't wait to get off the street, the cordoned area maked him physically ill... that fucking police tape didn't... shouldn't be here. Anthea waited politely until they were settled before firing a few questions John's direction, close to the same descriptives that he'd given the Met already. Christ, this had to be a new brand of night terror... he couldn't bring himself to get his mind to work around it. This was really happening... the two most important people in his life had vanished.

He closed his eyes, the reconstruction hazy. He honed the flat in his mind... the last footfalls made... last things picked up to be brought... if anything he could remember might be amiss. As the parlor came more into focus he didn't remember seeing the black messenger bag or his favored red Didymos... nothing to be keen about... Sherlock wouldn't have brought either though...possibly they'd been moved. There were no signs of struggle at their home, nothing odd with the front door. Again, John tried to think which way Sherlock would have traveled, what path he would have taken. Why he would have come back if injured or not just called immediately... why was there not more evidence of him and Hamish coming back?

None of it made anywhere close to any sense.


	26. Chapter 26

Damp and musty earthen air hit his lungs as he came to...still... so still he lay to listen for the minute changes... even in the air if he had to. He felt alone, no other sentient presence in the area. He could not tell if he was in a walled room, it almost felt as such, but he never was one to make assumptions. It was very cool, but most positively indoors... if he had to guess he'd say basement. That would account for the muffled feel of his senses. His mind righting itself, it struggled to raise out of the depths it had plumbed... drugged then. He felt odd, lighte-

Hamish.

Catalogue took lightning by storm it was so swift... mouth, hands, wrists... bound. Duct tape. eyes... fine but blinded... unshakable. Lower thighs, calves, ankles... bound. Duct tape. No shoes, but socks... interesting. Still had all other clothing, to bind him up better he supposed... where was his godson? his... John's child... oh, let him...

Stop. You cannot get out of this if you do not stay focused.

Still. His mind quieted he really listened again... desperate to find his bearings.

Walls... definite... basement seemed most likely, yet again due to the mouldy quality... the floor thin grade carpet... cheap area rug... hard underneath so wood or concrete... traffic... footfall above... mewling... scuffle... a kitten possibly? Once again he knew he had to extend his mind back to functioning parameters... it was familiar. All of this was... wait. His ears... protectors... who ever this was would burn... too good and got too close... no warning.

The scuff... against wood... agitation of something getting the best of it... possibly the kitten-

Not a kitten. No... not quite... Hamish!

He found himself praying to John's God, once again, in supplication... Please, let him live. Let me get to him... first he himself had to figure out the game... what it was and where they were.

THINK.

Hamish must be in a box or some sort of wooden thing. Might have been sleeping might have not... would explain why the room felt more alive... or their captor had come in. No. There had not been a temperature change. So they were alone, wherever they were. Familiar... on the edges. He rubbed hard on the covering for his eyes, the burn of the thin carpet against his cheek turned angry with heat as he repeated the exercise. He'd be damned if they... if something happened to Hamish... he'd rather...

AGAIN... move... eyes... they were the most important in this.

Shove, fabric yields a millimetre. Harder... again... lowlight on his cheek. Room isn't illuminated, but might very well have 'night vision' cameras or motion sensors... he'd be damned not to see his godson again. The repetitive noise on the edge seemed muffled still... but there. Hamish had air then... wasn't wailing... would hear that... possibly.

His left cheek abraded and bled, but he was able to finally get just enough away to see a sliver... he pushed hard one more time, shook hard... at least he could see. Finally. One eye, but enough... he knew where he was and they were all most definitely in danger...

The mobile lay parallel to his vision... must be off... should he work to turn it on?

Yes... not with hands... teeth.

With painstakingly slow movement he made his way to the mobile... it was only a few centimetres... then his chin had it. Fuck! His mouth... he couldn't even move the tape... still he rolled, could feel the hardness against his head... scooted until his fingertips felt the edges of the mobile. The room had gone still again... Hamish... of he wished he could see him... hear him. The stillness was more desperate... he began to tick off causes of death of the newborn, just to bite back an anguished cry, swallow it whole. It would serve no purpose... but to turn his mobile on... the GPS would activate and notify Mycroft, possibly John immediately...

Please God, for John... please...

Nothing. No noise... but his phone had been on silent... he had to believe that it hadn't been worn to nothing... he rolled on his back to access the corner of the room when he saw the trap. More elaborate than the Chinese Spider's act, but just as deadly.

Fuck.

He'd... Hamish could be safe. It would be alright... he'd given himself up for his father, of course he'd do it for the little one. Sweet child, the home you have made in my heart... I wish that I could be with you to see you grow... I am so sorry I'll be leaving so soon. Your father... he'll have to understand. He'd not cry... no... he'd be thankful instead. Calm... accept his fate... they'd live... they'd go on. If John couldn't... please do John... Please... if he couldn't the Lestrade's would have a son to raise along with their own child... they'd never have to worry for a thing for the children... Mycroft would not fight the choices. He knew Gregory was a good man...

Please John... please live for my godson... your beautiful boy... please... forgive me.

Hamish... he brought the child once again to the fore front. His first thready hours... the first time the hot little fleshy bumble touched his bare chest and was wrapped lightly blankets only to add weight... the miracle that was. Velvety newness... sweet amniotic smell still clung in his fluff of hair. Him breathing... his whole body fit against Sherlock's sternum... his heart soothing the babe... the babe enthralling him. Luxurious... decadent... he'd wanted to become lost, to be able to drift along with Hamish, to dream as he dreamt. Soft warmth most likely, Mary's steady heart, the loud white noise of a living body... possibly John's voice... possibly music...

The tears fell, soaked his covering. He didn't feel them... lost in the halls he'd given to Hamish... the ones yet to be explored. His mind imagined the three of them older, Hamish growing attending Eton or Harrow... John wistful with him that day... no, too painful.

Bumble, babe, sweet Hamish. His arms ached for him one last time... for a fleeting moment, he wondered if this was what Mary had felt, knowing she would die, but that he could live. He'd never had the chance... if there was an afterlife he'd sing her praises to her there.

Noise now above him... it wouldn't be long now. He was alright with that.

Hamish was all that mattered.


	27. Chapter 27

The notice, small dot on his map he had pulled up on the tablet... Christ... it was on... no call or text though. Not good. He left the bedroom as he heard the footsteps on the wooden floor. No reason to wake Molly, not yet. She had fallen asleep rather quickly once they had reached Snow, heading for the nursery after a long embrace and a kiss to his cheek.

"Where."

The only word necessary.

"Baker." Mycroft's answer. The man cut quite an image, jacket and waistcoat gone, his sleeves rolled beyond his elbows. Black armor with the tapes tight, pistol slung. "We need to let Alpha and Charlie know to move into position." Mycroft clipped to some youngster beside him. He turned to level a serious gaze, one that spoke of prior experience not of a government office worker. One that held the power that was always hinted at. "Bravo will be with us Captain... Blackwood will show you to your kit."

He nodded and followed the taller dark haired man towards the kitchen, taking in the stride. The bloke was cocky... but seemed more field related than naïveté ... given he was close to John's age, but one never knew... he seemed familiar, but John pushed that aside for the time being.

"Helmand, sir." Blackwood spoke as John looked at his gear. "You patched up one of mine... hell, you probably don't remember... but thanks."

"Doing my job, then and now." John replied.

"Your husband and kid?"

To the point, need to know since John might become invested.

"My newborn, six weeks. Also the man closest to me," Let him decipher that. "Holmes' younger brother as well."

"Mother of God."

"No, Mary has nothing to do with this-" His breath caught for a moment. He tightened the web for his holster to hide it. He knew he didn't, but men like this understood. "Whoever did this has zero to do with God and we both know it." Tapes tight, he turned back to face Blackwood. "Do we have eyes on the situation?"

"No one from Bravo." Was the immediate reply. "We're all yours and Brimstone's there."

"Brimstone?" His eyebrow cocked with the tight sideways smile. "Yep, about suits him to the ground." It really did, in this incarnation... John had always wondered, considered... but he seemed so damned public school. Good on him... he wondered if Sherlock knew...

"Of course my brother knows John, just not quite to this degree. We'll have to bump your clearance after this..." The smile alight with gleeful malice, not towards John, but shared. "Quite so, John... come this way and I'll show you what we have."

"Lestrade in on this?"

"All of the Met officers there only. They are aware of the stakes, no one else is to be alerted."

"Alright." He worked to settled his demeanor. "What are we talking?"

"Two in the basement, both still viable. Six upper floors. Same." Mycroft answered. "There are complications."

"Yes? Show me." Mycroft shared a short hard look with Blackwood. "There's been an activation of sorts... Bravo is suited for this-"

John turned his eyes to Blackwood. "What exactly is your expertise?"

"Extraction and minimisation of collateral in urban areas." he answered.

"What exactly are we looking at?" John's breath caught in his chest. "Bomb?"

"Much more elaborate, sir."

"Again... Yes?" Anger bubbled now. He was no civee and yes, this was difficult but fuck all if he couldn't get the information out of these two. "I've been, you know... level with me now."

"There's a trap... it's fucking brilliant... but that's the problem." Blackwood states. "Your man knows somehow. There's a trip in the room... one of them has to be chosen. One has to be lost... he's maneuvered-"

"Alright. Walk us through if you would." John sighed, heavy and deep. "Let's work through our options... I'll raze the fucking place if I have too. It's our home being used against us... our life... sound familiar, Mycroft?"

"Yes, Captain, it does. That is why Bravo is here, just incase we have a soft spot in Alpha or Charlie. We've already begun dealing with your personal details... well, that's for later."

"Agreed. Let's get Sherlock and Hamish the hell out of there... both alive, preferably."

God, he couldn't stand to lose him again. He wouldn't. He'd go with. As much as he loved his son, he'd be nothing once... if Sherlock was gone... it would be the responsible thing in this instance. Mycroft or Molly and Greg would see to Hamish... love him in all the ways he deserved... ways John just wouldn't be able to.

"Captain, with all-"

"Blackwood, shut it... this is my battleground. Yes, I am well aware... suicide mission... we've dealt with this before."

"John, it would do you good to listen to reason... think on your son-"

"I will lay you out right here, right now, Mycroft." That was it, he'd lost it. To hell with keeping the lid on. "Look, we both know I'll... I wouldn't be viable. If he goes, I go, end of. See that Hamish is raised per our wishes. We always knew what we did was dangerous." He smiled wistfully. "I've just got him, not losing that again, not for anyone."

"I see. Well then, Captain... John... let's see if we can get you close enough to get your son to safety before the inevitable."

"Always was, you called it. Let's do this..."


	28. Chapter 28

It was early days, John knew that. They'd not had a chance at anything really, but they'd already had everything in a way... at least more than most ever had, ever felt. False dawn lit the city's horizon. Another day, that's all this was... just another beginning. Soon, for Hamish, Christmas. Wonder, lights, love... first presents... John had told Mycroft to make sure the gifts they had chosen were safely gone through and rewrapped for him. The only other request was that the pictures in his nursery be brought to one day give him, or be displayed in his room.

The trick of it all was timing. They had zero input from Sherlock, but had a damn good idea how it was going to work... any portal wired... a timer of sorts... race against a clock. Try to save both, you might lose both along with your life... choose one, you should have enough time to get out before everything goes to hell. He pulled his disks out, rubbed at them, closed his eyes and prayed.

He knew, the probability was low, of both Sherlock and he getting out. He'd have enough time to hand Hamish off though... that was the plan of the moment until they could get his eyes on the situation. At least he'd get to hold cuttle one last time before... and Sherlock, too...

"Gallows weighing on you, Captain?" Blackwood had snuck up too it seemed. "I have a couple myself... girls. Look, we know what we sign up for... but you're out... you're home-"

"Never expected to be; was invalided out. Met the tosser you've heard named, yea?" John knew the drill, the stories needed to be told. Always did. "We solved crimes, marvelous things. Look up my blog later... all there. Then, well, he died, but didn't... to save me. I got married, we got lucky, then he came back to life." It seemed so beautiful for a moment. "Mary and I were on our way to the hospital... car accident. Things were promised. Then he and I promised to try... we didn't our first chance... and now I had my son to raise... we'd probably be married in the next year, actually. But that's another life, innit?"

"You deserve this to work out, but I'm not going to bullshit you, sir-"

"John... call me John."

"John, look... you know how this is going down, just tell me who to get your son to... who do you trust? If there is a leak, it's not here and I'm not going to let someone take your kid. I'd never allow it with my own... so who... someone already there? Brimstone?"

"Lestrade, Gregory. He's D.I. on the case... or Donovan, Sally. She's a right mouth at times, but she'd kill someone before a hair was touched on his head if she could help it. No one else. If they aren't available, he's yours until you get to Mycroft, understood? No one else... no one."

"You really think it was an inside job?" Blackwood looked uncomfortable.

"I know it." John sighed. "I just will never know why."

"Lemme call my guys up here a min? That alright?" Blackwood stood to leave the rooftop.

"Ta! Bring the whiskey from the second cabinet... one last, you know."

That was that, he supposed. No calls to make... no worries... felt right. If they made it through this they were moving to the country and he'd start a practice, make Sherlock take up his damn beekeeping to keep busy. At least for a little while. They deserved their happiness, they deserved to watch their son grow... Hamish was theirs... almost more Sherlock's if you were talking time physically with. God, they had been happy for a minute.

The creak told him that he had company once more... time to pull it together. Blackwood, then another younger man with him, who was kitted out as well; the third that joined them reminded John of himself from when he'd barely joined. Alright then... nice.

"So, you're the one we might get blown up for?" The young blonde quipped, a sloppy smile across his face. "Did the boss tell you why we are so keen?"

John did not know what to make of the man. "And you are?"

"Henn, sir. Did he tell you?"

"No, he didn't." John leveled a look at the young man.

"We're the best damn extraction team you could ask for... McMath... what do you see?"

"It's a long shot, really horrible odds. Sir, are you willing to work with us?"

"I thought I was your acting until I'm not." John stated. "Seems simple to me. Already discussed what I expect with your Blackwood here."

"Respectfully sir, you've seen combat. Brimstone glossed over the more important parts, but he made me personally aware of your record... and as I stated you've patched up our own. We owe you... we all feel this way."

"Ah, so you're the paper and I'm the glue... the bastard..." Surprise tinged his voice. Damn Mycroft... leave it to him. "No one else knows?"

"Not a one, sir."

"Explains the lack of identifiers of you and McMath then." John sat quietly, things ran at a lull deep within him. Why an extraction team, what was John not seeing? It was obvious he had missed something... how could they get them both out... "Oh. I see."

"What is it sir?" Henn's face turned quizzical before he looked at Blackwood. "We understand if you-"

"No, Henn. I'm fine thank you." John huffed a grim laugh. "Brimstone knows I'm not coming back... but he has hope for not just my son, but his brother. If I take Sherlock's place... damn! If I could only talk to him before. The man is a fucking genius..."

"Well we have eyes... want to see the intel?" McMath offered the corner of the building plans. "Here's where the Met are. Here's where yours are... this is as of thirty minutes ago. We know that there is a bomb of sorts that has been triggered by the mobile. It still has a second trigger that has to happen..."

"You think it's my son don't you?" The colour blanched from his body as it lost all heat. "Whatever he's in? Lifting it might... or opening it?"

"Yes." Blackwood reached across and placed his hand on John's shoulder. "Exactly. I think it's a suicide and murder trap."

"Fuck. You men... you do not have to do this."

"It's what we do, John. What you did before now," Henn laughed. "Do and die for Queen and country? We don't believe in no win scenarios."

"Which is why we're here." Blackwood reiterated. "We owe you, Brimstone knew we'd say hell yes... simple, really."

"Alright, McMath... you tell me what we've got to work with, yea? Find us an out."


	29. Chapter 29

He was going insane.

He knew it was dawn, knew Hamish was in major distress, and he could not move... if he did... well he'd rather not think on it. His arms cramped, sheer unadulterated pain singed along the tortured limbs... he wondered if there would be any permanent damage. Would he even live to know? He turned his thoughts away from his body and it's useless anger.

Sherlock walked the halls, his mind palace where John and Hamish resided was a complete wreck. He'd been going over every memory... it hadn't helped... it made it worse. So much lost time between the two of them, so much Sherlock had forgotten about John. If he could have been arsed to remember John's military career, maybe he'd not have gone off alone; maybe they would have worked together...

...but that was then. John met Mary, settled down and had become a father.

Obviously Hamish would be the one they would go for first. His godson had so much life left, so many wondrous and horrible things to experience... if he were lucky he'd be awake when whomever was to liberate them came... possibly be able to see the small bundle carried before they figured out the trick... the hand that had been dealt... or possibly they had and were set to find a work around. His brother would do all he could.

As his thoughts began to haze, Sherlock tried to hold to his memories, keep them so he may dream of John as he lost consciousness once again. The thought of a place, somewhere wooded they once had been... before... The Cross Keys...

Terror. He did not feel it now, but it was unsurprising that this had come to the front. The first real test between John and he... the sentiment Sherlock had tried once again to voice... hadn't since Sebastian. He felt John was loyal, but he had made his point since that case to make sure others knew exactly where Sherlock and he stood. Colleagues... the same damned word that Sally had used that first night. Could there be any word more hateful? But at The Keys, he'd booked for a double, and they wound up having to get a room with two singles that could be joined, but hadn't in this century as far as he could tell. John had made a small joke about even the beds wanting them together, but the lack of proper equipment making it impossible.

He had never hated John until that moment... well not hated, just terribly angered by... it had hurt. To blatantly book a double room, then to laugh it off in the way he had... it hadn't been an error. The innkeeper had tried to accommodate even still... John was cruel. He cared, but he was fast becoming Sherlock's keeper, which he had not needed. He needed a friend, the same man he had met a year prior... the kind, solid, strong man. Not this... it was so very rare... the warmth anymore at that point of their friendship...

...then the graveyard... he had tried so very hard. He was sure of himself, his compassion and concern for the doctor. The bloom of other emotions tight in his chest... emotions he hadn't looked for. After all, everyone had forced him to the outside of society, he was the freak with the eidetic memory and genius alight within. A machine, someone who knew too much and was ostracized for it... who wouldn't pull away? Who would want to feel? When sex was a joke to be played, people who were friends only to glean usage of you... but then one person... a single man you've barely just met makes you question the armor you've carried so close it's subdermal...

... the deep rise and purge. The exchange from plate, to mail... to become malleable again... to breathe different air. Where it was alright... everything was just fine... he was able to explore and let go and be happy. To be in love... to love... to be hopeful. To fear and protect.

As he would try to protect now.

"Brimstone, be aware of possible exodus in two hours." John spoke to the com as he headed up the stairs.

"Good luck to you all." Mycroft answered. "Bring my men back to me, understood."

"Yes, sir." It felt odd, those words out of his mouth once again. "Hellfire, out." John caught Greg's look of astonishment as he breezed through the flat's door, all kitted. It was quite a change, John had to admit. He had not looked forward to this exchange, but hoped his friend would understand.

"Gregory, get your team away from here. You all should be behind the cordon by now." Warmth from the shared whiskey still in his veins helped to fuel the brashness of tone. "I'll not have this go sideways with you in the building, understand?"

"John?" Sally's face registered shock and temper. "You can't just come in and order us around-"

"Can and will do. Captain, you see?" John smiled wickedly. "And Greg loves me and his wife so he will listen... won't you?"

"Oi, now John!" Lestrade blushed and then calmed. "What about Sherlock and Hamish? Who's for hand off? We're in the dark here..."

"Sorry," John turned serious. "That's the way it's got to be. Safer." He tried to convey his full military rank without his last words being too hurtful for his friend. They'd be dealing with possible exposure and sluggishness on Sherlock's part... the possibility of multiple trips... "Lestrade, this is ours now. Thank you for your time on this matter. Please leave the area and go across the way to the safe zone."

"Alright... but I'll see you again, yea?" Greg came and gripped John in a tight quick hug. "I'll get tonight's round."

"Sure, Greg." John returned it gladly. "Give Mols a kiss for me."

"I can't believe it. You're going to really let him do this?" Donovan was amazed. "He's a civilian Greg... he's-"

"Sally Donovan, do I look like a civilian? Do you even know my kill count?" John stepped up to her, but just out of her personal space. "I am not a cuddly middle-aged man. If you can't see that then you are really blind. I respect you, but I will throw your ass out and have it handed to you if I have to... please Sally... just listen."

"But John..." Donovan broke just enough for tears to gather without being shed, her eyes steel. "You had better make it out of this you idiot. You have responsibility... a son... think on that, yea?"

"I know, it's all fine." John assured her knowing it was nothing of the sort. "Everyone's fine. I want to keep it that way... Greg does too. Now go. That's an order."

With that he moved toward their desk and brushed all of the Met's intel and pieces of their everyday life to the floor.

"Let's set up here gents." John called behind him, not looking back. "We don't have all day."

John sighed deeply pulling in the scent of their flat before the exhale.

"Alright, you heard the man. Let's get the camera, see what we can see..."

Two hours later, they had a rough plan. A very fucked up plan, but a plan.

The place was a mess below them. They could see Sherlock, but they had no way of getting a visual on Hamish... the old battered wooden box was closed. It was obvious to them that this had been done with the intent to rattle John. Blackwood was fairly certain whoever thought this up hadn't expected this type of response. The underestimation would not occur again if whoever did this was watching remotely. They didn't see a camera, but something had to have tracked Sherlock's movement to set the game into motion... then John noticed it... the way Sherlock was laying. He hadn't tried to move... at all.

"Brimstone."

"Here, Hellfire."

"There is a complication."

"Go on."

"Viper is prone and inactive. Team requesting permission to come up with an alternate strategy."

"Understood, Hellfire."

John had gone to his room, pulled out his casebook, gave it a quick once over. He found the letter he had written after Sherlock's death... one just after he had visited the man's grave. It had been hard, but it was the right thing to do, to write it all down just once, get out everything he had wanted to say and would never be able to.

But yet, he had gotten his miracle after all. Twice, three times over.

Of course now he was to pay the piper for his moment of happiness, and he knew, had known that this could not last. For now, the letter could be read by Sherlock if he survived this or by someone who cared for them... maybe added into his final blog. A personal snippet from his private life... the way he had seen Sherlock. The way he still did.

His moment of reflection up, he returned to the parlor and the men he was trusting with their lives. He was the outsider, John knew that, but the three had seamlessly butted him into their dynamic for this. If they all survived, he'd owe them for the rest of his life. Sherlock would agree... sentiment aside... he might even do something extraordinary.

"Alright there, Captain?"

"It's all fine, Blackwood. Henn, call it."


	30. Chapter 30

The team made their way in towards the basement flat, careful to watch for trip wires or IR sensors, when none were found they swiftly passed through the corridor to the flat's door. No time or patience for locks that never held, John took his temper out and kicked the door open in two swift hits. This damn place. Fucking Moriarty and all his bloody games... maybe Baker should be razed and rebuilt... a cleansing of sorts. John shook his head minutely to clear his thoughts, he needed to stay aware and alert.

"Watson, I have a visual on your man." Henn called. The mention of his son was unnecessary, they could hear the softened noises of distress from the box in the room beyond. At the sound of Henn's voice however, Sherlock seemed to rouse a bit. "Looks a mess."

"Yes, a fuck-all situation." Blackwood grimaced. "McMath, call this in while Watson and I get in there. You two, stay put as agreed."

"Sure, boss." Henn quipped before he and McMath cleared the rest of the rooms.

"Sherlock," John breathed lightly as he spoke with authority. Blackwood took to the perimeter of the room to make sure they hadn't missed anything with the camera as John made his way to his friend. "We're here to get you and Hamish. Stay still for just a moment longer, we'll get you out of this." John deftly lied as he had lied to others before, the soldier taking forefront. John knew Sherlock would not believe it, but he hoped he was comforted by the sentiment. The floor was rough under his knee as he placed himself by Sherlock, placed a hand on his shoulder to remind him to stay still before he cut away the material that had covered his eyes. "Abrasion, left cheek, not severe." He had yet to open them, which concerned John, but he continued. "Ear protectors, both sides, I'm taking them out."

"Why'd the bastard do that?" Blackstone mused as he kept his eyes on the room. "Sensory deprivation?"

"Possibly. I'm going to have to rouse him... going to need help keeping him still as well." John sighed worry seeping into his frame. "Stay beside him, I need to check and release Hamish. Henn, get in here for hand off."

Henn came through the doorway, passed John and Blackwood, then began the once over of the crate Hamish was in. It killed John to hear his child, visibly bothered all of them to have to be this methodical when the newborn was clearly in distress, but they'd all decided on the cautious approach, as none of this made sense... may never. Mad bombers were the worst type, no purpose but mayhem. John was intimately aware of this fact, had nightmares due to it.

"Sir, it looks clear. Want me to work the top off?"

"Yes. Alright," John pulled the salts out. He hated to wake Sherlock this way, if it was even possible to, but there was nothing for it. "Sherlock? Sherlock I need you to come around now... if you're off in your damn palace I'm going to be very put out." The quirk of the left side of his mouth spoke differently. He cracked and shook the single use immediately placing it just above Sherlock's nose while both he and Blackwood steadied at his shoulders to keep his movement to a minimum. The reaction was fairly instantaneous.

"Wired, we know." John stopped him from mumbling worriedly. "Do. Not. Move." He and Blackwood moved the covering off his mouth and removed the balled up fabric that had been in his mouth. "Now talk us through it while I go , get Hamish."

"John, we're triggered. Both of us, I believe."

"Henn?" John looked to the younger man.

"Nothing, sir."

"See, Hamish will be fine. These men are going to get him to safety... we'll follow."

"No, you don't understand-"

The voice came across the com cut through the conversation. "Hellfire, there is movement in the second floor."

"Where are the snipers?" John asked.

"Alpha is non-responsive."

"Well, Watson, here's our answer... no more time to play around." Blackwood flashed a dark, wicked smile. "Let's get this done."

"Henn, get Hamish free now and get to the safe zone. You know who the hand off goes to."

So be it... he'd got to kiss him yesterday... breathe him in. It would be fine.

"Sherlock, you're coming too." John's voice brooked no argument. "What are we going to do about our-"

The shots rang through the upper floors. Answering fire just seconds behind the first shots.

"Who-"

"No time, let's get your pretty boyfriend and get out of here."

"Sherlock it's..." It was all going to hell in a handbasket about as fast as something could around the two of them. Blackwood took one look at the two of them and shook his head before he moved to help Henn free their child. John began to search for what mechanism was on Sherlock when his fingers felt it. "No." John's stomach clenched as he realised their error. His eyes dipped to where his hand was on the shirt, the air punched out of his lungs. "No, no, no... Not happening Sherlock. I'm here alright?"

The room tunneled until all John could do was see the love of his life, tears freely shed hit the carpet below. "John, you must."

"Not leaving you. How much have you lost?" John made mental calculations as he heard the rough trudge of boots swiftly move past them through the doorway that led to safety. He gave a second to pray that the assassin upstairs was either pinned or dead. That Hamish got to safety. "Sherlock! How much blood have you lost?"

"I... don't know." Sherlock's voice was rough. "You can't, John... I can't have you- not-"

"Shut. Up." John focused and looked toward Blackwood. "Mister here has a bomb."

"Yes. We knew that, we're going to get him free-"

"No, they've implanted it." John steadied himself before using the com. "Brimstone. Two of us will not be making it back tonight."

"John," Blackwood spoke in hurried tones. "Look, I've seen this. They've been hidden in corpses before... they can be removed."

"We do not know if it even the same type of device!"

"No, we don't." The soldier responded. "But I still owe you." Blackwood engaged his com. "Henn, McMath? All clear?"

Henn answered immediately in the affirmative, with McMath seconding.

"John, no. Please... Hamish... He's everything." Sherlock pleaded with John. "Please, go. It'll not be a minute for me, you know that... maybe less than two if I bleed out."

"No!" John was furious. "I'll not have it! Fuck!"

He had to think clearly and rationally. How in bloody fucking hell was he supposed to do that?

Blackwood said he'd seen this, but in corpses... Christ... There was nothing for it, the need to fix the situation drove him beyond his normal realm of safety and sane actions.

"Bring me the kit."


	31. Chapter 31

The smokey quartz bench sat invitingly amidst the rose hedges of the ages old gardens. He found himself neither home, nor indeed anywhere he had ever remembered being, even though it felt as if he'd been in this place before. Swift, light rushes of warmth pulsed through, as if the whole of it were alive, moved by an unknown rhythm.

"Sherlock."

His name whispered through the leaves of the grotto, the word full of endearment. Here he felt safe... he knew though, something was amiss... not right...

The outer grounds of his mind palace.

"Correct, they are."

How is it possible that I be outside of my own construct? I've never even bothered... oh...

The dim light danced, made his vision spotty, even still he could see John. The musculature ache and nerves that screamed had gone to an echo that murmured along his veins, he struggled just to breathe. He felt the hypersensitive skin scream as John touched the incision site... he mustn't do so.

"I... don't know..." He answered, his brain supplied the words, the answers. He had to fight to think. "... not be a minute..." Struggled to make eye contact, put everything he couldn't say there. "...maybe less if I bleed out..."

He could feel movement of his flesh. The fabric torn away he supposed, he felt as if he were being slid into an all encompassing high... nothing mattered very much. He was only skin and bone and electromotive force. His brilliance would not be, no longer exist his internal alarm rang, but in deference to the pain he had been in... either he was dying or high... neither he could do a thing about. "John... love you... go."

This time found him sitting on the lush moss under the shade of the deep canopy, instead of standing, the blanket underneath him soft and inviting. He could just lie back to watch the glitter of light dance between the boughs... count the leaves and find a name for the species... it was terribly tempting to just be. This, though, had never existed. Or had it?

He could hear something on the edges, possibly a clock, more likely a metronome... that would make the most sense, as the solarium doors from the palace were open. He fancied what it would be like to have John here, to show him everything... the wing he had dedicated only to him. Laughter floated it's way to him, John's laughter, one of the many sounds he kept close from that first day... the recall perfect. Light of timbre and full of mirth, it was wonderful to hear, but only made him want to share this even more.

Sherlock found himself smiling as he decided to follow... he could hear John's voice now just at the edge of his hearing range... as if he were waiting inside...

"Epinephrine now." John barked at Blackwood. "Get him mainlined. Lido, too." John was in fine form as McMath came in with John's medbag. "Sherlock, I know you can hear me... this is going to be rough... I'm here though. We're going to get you to safety very soon." His eyes found McMath still beside him. "Find out if we have a specialist, yea? Get them here now. Make sure you call it in. No time for errors."

The doors were open letting in the gentle breeze that had caressed his skin. He could feel the difference in temperature as soon as he passed through the doorway from outside, the stonework insulating sapped the heat from his body. His body felt odd, full... his vision acted as snapshots... he could see someone in the corridors... but they fuzzed out and instantaneously seemed further away, like something out of one of those terrible horror movies. Every few steps the pattern repeated, until they stopped and turned towards what he knew was a door... John's door. All he had wanted was John, so of course he would find himself at this particular door. He wondered if this was all that was left of him... they say that time stretches in between one moment to the next right as you die... maybe this was his extension. Maybe this was his swan song and John, well this version, was his coda.

The mahogany was varnished to a perfected sheen, the bevel inset a perfect reproduction of John's favourite cabling pattern. Sherlock inhaled, could almost smell baking and tea and home as he pressed the brass knob hard enough to impress the ornate knotwork into his palm. Just one turn, and he'd be home.

"Alright then." John set himself. No time for anything else. "Fuck it."

"Fuck it." Blackwood echoed as he met John's eyes. "We've seen worse. Today's as good as any, yea? Let's do this."

The perimeter cleared now, they had little pause for worry.

"Hand me that scalpel, there." John took two sharp inhalations and then began severing the quick stitches on Sherlock's abdomen. "Brimstone, we'll need someone from the bomb squad in approximately three to five minutes."

He didn't feel he needed to add the if we're still alive.

Sherlock opened the door and was met with their parlor, yet not their parlor at Baker. No, this one was at a cottage. He had designed for the two of them to build when they were ready to retire. One day... but weren't they already? Wasn't that why he was here?

He looked for John, but did not see him.

Kitchen then.

The place was a lovely mess, John was mid-way through a jamming. How wonderful. The sweet stuff had eventually grown on him, especially John's favorite.

Raspberry with thyme.

An unusual collaboration, found quite by mistake when he had run out of lemon curd he had made. So in the thyme went with the experimental raspberry compote after it had mostly cooled. His John, at times, was quite a genius too.

That sweet, almost treacle aroma tempered with the rising yeast scent of just baking bread and freshly minced thyme. Home. Sherlock grabbed one of the thin blankets off of the hooks by their kitchen door and headed towards their garden. Perhaps John was there.

"Send in the transfusion kit at the same time." John spoke as he worked. All the sutured cut he pulled apart a small section to see what they were dealing with. "Sherlock, Christ."

"Watson... tell me what to do." Blackwood pulled him back to the present.

"Alright, you're going to have to help me. Hold him here..." John pointed. "And here. We have to pull him back open."

"Two incoming in one." They both heard through their coms.

"Understood." John answered.

Mid Spring here had become his favorite. Sherlock had never really had a preference, he blamed it on his beloved obsession. The apiaries were just alive, warm enough finally for the bees to greet the garden specifically grown for their liking, sometimes he'd see the ones from their wild growth happily dithering between their home and the more domesticated area they'd set apart.

Sherlock spread the blanket wide and laid himself in the middle of the grass intersection between their tame gardens, the bees buzzily fussing to and fro. Everything had begun to bloom in earnest finally, it was so good to see. Soon he'd begin to take stock of how this colonies were doing and John would be out here plucking the tender fruit of their labor and making delicacies.

More walks for them, but that was just fine.

"This isn't home you know?" John asked conversationally.

"It most certainly is, John." Sherlock smiled indulgently at his doctor. "You know this, you personally oversaw everything as much as I did."

"Really?" John's eyebrow raised before he sipped from his mug. "When was it built? How long have we lived here?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but found he could not. He thought a moment then began to realise the wrongness.

"Nothing to be afraid of..." John consoled. "I'm here. Well, was and am, and not. As present as you wish, I suppose is the best way to explain. As Mary was for me so many years ago."

"But that wasn't years-" Sherlock sat up and put his hands on John's face. "Oh god, please tell me you haven't-"

"No. At least I don't believe so." John kept his gaze. "We all go on one day Sherlock, it's alright you know. If this..." He gestured toward the cottage and then gardens. "If this is the less painful route... it's alright."

"Less painful?" Sherlock was mildly confused. "What do you mean less? What pain?"

"Sherlock, how did you come here?" John was asking questions... wanting him to deduce. "Tell me. Walk me through it."

"I came through our door and came out here to find you."

"No, you didn't." John looked a bit forlorn. "You wanted to find me, but forgot for a moment. There are other things you are forgetting that are important too." He put his cup on the grass and tipped his head up, giving Sherlock a chaste kiss. "Or maybe not so much now. It's all fine."

Sherlock thought as John pressed him back onto the blanket and then laid along side him.

The removal was too easy for his liking in the end. At the same time there was so much... damage internally from the initial... insertion.

Between Blackwood and his work,they gingerly began the task of moving into the bomb squads area of expertise. John had got a crash course and turned into the squaddies' implement as he watched over John's shoulder and gave directions. Thank god he had nerves of steel... no, titanium. That they all did.

"Good job, doctor." The squaddie had stated calmly as John packed the open cavity lightly then signalled for them to move with the bomb to their set-up further in the room over where the... not far enough away for comfort that was for sure. "Going to call it in."

"Yes, do it. Blackwood, tell them we are ready for transport." John looked at the plasma. "And that we'll be needing more support once out." Thank God, Sherlock might actually make it out as some semblance of alive. "Now let's keep him as stable as possible, yea?


	32. Chapter 32

It was a marvelous thing to wake up to, John sleeping alongside him. In their bed. The coolness of the room was noticeable to Sherlock as he turned towards his bedfellow. John's hair was sticking up in a few places, and there were a couple of sleep lines from his pillow, but all in all he looked peaceful. Just the way Sherlock felt.

The sun was barely striping their wooden floor in it's golden pattern through the lace. John's decision; he'd stated that it made him think of a bed and breakfast. Sherlock had acquiesced on this minor detail. Even though, he had to admit, it was quite lovely on mornings such as this. He kissed John on the temple and rested his fingers lightly on John's neck before slowly drifting back off.

When he woke again, John had made his side of the bed and could be heard in the kitchen downstairs. The smell of fresh coffee and bacon beckoned him, but first he wanted a bath. Caramel marble taps gleamed warmly at him as he reached then turned to fill their deep copper soaking tub. Sherlock grabbed one of the pristine white fluffy towels through the ring on the tub then set about putting his shaving kit to work.

John came upstairs and added some lavender and sage to the hot water filling the room with herbaceous sweet steam. He gave Sherlock a kiss to his neck before moving to leave.

"Stay?" Sherlock asked as he caught John's eyes in the mirror.

"If you want." John relaxed into a happy expression as he began to remove his clothes. "Seems like a good morning for a soak." John fiddled with the taps cooling the last bit of water that entered the tub, stirring the water to mix and make it more comfortable. "This will be quite lovely."

"You first, I'll be done shortly." He finished shaving quickly to not keep John or the water waiting.

"I've missed you." John stated conversationally.

"Yes, but even you understand the need for healing." Sherlock sighed as he entered the hot water. It relaxed him almost immediately. "You've added an herbal medicinal tincture to our bath, even."

"You were the one that suggested I take up my education where it had been lacking."

"And aren't you happy for it?" Sherlock laughed. "Our kitchen is always busy now this time of year. Your practice is quiet at this time, so it fills the gaps."

"Yes, it does." John reached forward with a flannel full of suds. "Would you like me to?"

The thought of John's wonderfully nimble hands washing him sent a wicked flush through his already heated body. It had been a while hadn't it?

"Please?" Was the best response Sherlock could come up with.

John pulled him around to face away instead of towards him as Sherlock had been and began washing his shoulders and back. Then one arm; the other. He relaxed against John's steadiness as arms wrapped around him loosely. Sherlock could feel John's response to their proximity at the small of his back. He sighed relaxing further against him, resting his head back against John's shoulder

"Comfortable?" John asked as he pressed a kiss to Sherlock's temple.

"Yes, quite..." His breath caught as John began to wash his chest. His skin had come alive in a tingly, prickly way making the sudsy flannel and John's ministrations come away from the languorous quality from before. "... John..." His hips rolled minutely in the water as his body fully came to one mind.

"Good morning, sleepy love." The chuckle in the words was sweet. "Wondered if you'd get there today..." John continued the methodical scrub of Sherlock's torso. "Do you feel like..."

"Possibly... everything feels so... ephemerial?" Sherlock had always been horrible at this, but would make the effort because he wanted for once. "I feel all open and tight... content then not... wanting."

"Well, you are just settling back into your body after all... it's whatever you wish here." John kissed his cheek. "For now, for you."

"Please, John." His mind made, he gave himself permission to just feel. To ache for the man holding and comforting him. "But slow... we've missed that point. The knowing..."

John placed the flannel on the side of the tub, the suds slowly ran their course to the rustic floor. The white against the copper mesmerised Sherlock. He felt as if John clung to him even now as the foam held to the unyielding surface. John's hand dipped and ran the plane of his torso quite gently, his hand found the soft thatch and John pulled his fingers through. The whispers in Sherlock's ear shading them red.

"Oh..." Sherlock could not voice the rush of emotions. "You've missed..."

"So have you, my love. Miss you so." John found the thickness of his cock with his fingertips, trailing along it's length. "One day soon... we will."

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed as John took him fully in hand. The texture of his palm velvet around his cock. "Just... stay awhile."

"No rush. Not here." John continued to kiss at his ear and his neck.

He was held in the heat of the John's hand, the ambient warmth of the bath and the rising heat within his own body. It enveloped him as he became lost to sensation. The glide of them, the soft friction... it wasn't enough so he spun.

"John..." Sherlock knew it was risky, he didn't want this to be abrupt, but he needed John's mouth. Needed to taste the bitter blackness of his morning coffee, smell the lavender and astringent sage against his skin. The water sloshed to meet the floor as he pressed himself against John. "I need... God... I..."

"Kiss me, take me then." John mouthed into their kiss. "Yours... here. Now."

Sherlock straddled him and brought their cocks together with the same sultry, slow touch. He couldn't help but to shudder at the touch and bite aggressively into it.

"That's it. Sherlock... love..." John rasped into Sherlock's hair. He needed to devour and worship, to love John to the ground. Needed this for the both of them. John licked a stripe of sweat away from Sherlock's jaw; hummed into the motion. Sherlock kept at their steady pace even as he felt the thrust of John's hips, the flare of his own cock, the movement of the water around them.

"Now John... please... please..." He begged suddenly, taut and wanton. Sherlock took John's mouth once again as he convulsed into the orgasm. John followed just after. His body frisson, he sunk sideways against John, shaking.

"Those would be the nerves coming back online." John steadily noted and his arms wrapped Sherlock tight against him. "I'll add more hot, will help possibly. Distract... lull you maybe."

"Then later?" Sherlock asked, he felt sleep taking him under. "Breakfast?"

"Whatever you choose, Sherlock." John kissed his brow. "Rest."


	33. Chapter 33

"How are we today, John?" Molly asked from the doorway. "Any change?"

John looked up from the book he had been reading to Sherlock. The light in the room had turned toward evening. Bumble looked solidly asleep in Molly's arms; the two so out of place in this washed out enviroment. He looked towards Sherlock, so very wan. Perfectly covered. His arms to either side unmoving.

"His brain function has improved today." John gave her a broken smile. "He seemed to neurologically respond to input from his extremities today."

That was one of the concerns, one of the big three. Hopefully Sherlock would be able to have full functionality of his limbs. His mental capabilities were the biggest concern, but John knew the ability for Sherlock to move, to play, to work... that would be a close second.

"So we are out of the woods then, a bit?" Molly toed her way into the room. "That's... well, wonderful actually."

"Yes, small strides." John slumped back into the green-grey pleather hospital recliner. "As soon as he's stable enough, we'll move him to a private hospital. Lucky for me, it's not that far from the house in Cambridge." He looked up at her again. "You two coming to stay towards the end of your pregnancy, yea?"

"Yes, we'd love it." She gave a small smile. "And we'll be up as often as we can, might just be mostly me, well for now, with the way Greg's work is going."

"Honestly, I know that Hamish and I will really enjoy the company." John frowned as he noticed his gloss over of Sherlock. "I'm sure he'll be happy to see you as well... once he's fully cognitive."

"Do we know how long he'll be kept in the induced coma?" Molly sounded hopeful. "Will it be very long?"

"Well, the initial CT's were alright, but the visceral trauma..." He inhaled sharply and forced himself to continue. "That was... very touch and go. Still might have a few surgeries if complications arise..." He stopped a moment to gather himself. "But we'll hope for the best of it."

"Well, you've seen this... sort of... when you were in the army right? How long do you..."

"Maybe a month, maybe less if there is zero complication, which is highly unlikely." John grimaced, it was true it would be tightwire for a bit, but he could handle it. "If we can, Christmas might be at the manor. Would you and Greg come? I know Mycroft will be with us."

"I wonder... it would be nice, wouldn't it." Molly stood and patted John on the shoulder. "I'll mention it when I get home. Want to kiss the little man before I go?"

John took his son in his arms and held him close. He brushed the downy hairs before he settled a kiss on his forehead, then cheek. "I'll be in late, but I'll be at the flat before dawn. Set the alarm though alright?"

"We will." She sighed. "It is nice, this flat so close to work. Short distance, but good for me. Don't worry, Greg is meeting me downstairs, so I'll not be walking alone."

He handed Hamish back. "See you in the morning."

John hadn't meant to fall asleep. He really hadn't. But here he was, waking at God knows what dark-thirty. He felt the shift in the room and bristled. There was someone most definitely snoring in front of the door to the hallway from inside their room.

"You'd better tell me who you are now before you're neatly disposed of." John stated conversationally to the dark room. "I can tell you're awake, no point in trying to hide it."

"It's me John," The deep voice roughened by lack of sleep answered. "I do worry about you two you know."

"Mycroft! Christ..." John deflated. "You need to be in a real bed. You need real sleep."

"Same could be said for you, yet here we are." Mycroft moved around the darkened room for a moment before finding the lowlight switch. "So... Christmas?"

"Well, you don't fuck around do you? Let's go right for the-"

"John... all I was asking is the same you implied to Molly earlier." Mycroft brought his chair close to the bed. "Shall I have the manor brought up to running? Tree; full out trimmings?"

"Yea, I suppose." John sighed as he wiped his face roughly in his hands. "It is Hamish's first, after all. Sherlock wanted- fuck. Sherlock wants him to have a special one. I do, too."

"Well, I think it will be fine. With all of us there, you'll be able to be with him and Hamish won't miss a thing."

"I can't leave Hamish to you... it wouldn't be... I can't." John mumbled. "I can't. I'll feel awful."

"Nonsense, John." Mycroft placed his hand on John's good shoulder. "You'll be there in the morning, then you can be with Sherlock the rest of the day. It's settled. I'll have the house made open for use starting in a few days. Hopeful thoughts, John... be hopeful."

With that, the man John wanted to simultaneously hug and murder all, stood and left for the night.

"Well, I bet you loved that." John half-laughed. "Mycroft being sentimental. And bullying me... about you and I both for once." He placed his fingers against Sherlock's. "God, I miss your voice. I wish you could've said something just to rattle him, just because you could." John brought the hand up to his lips and pressed a hard kiss. "Let's just get through this, alright. I've already bargained and wept more in this hospital than I ever wanted to. Do you know that we are only three..." He heaved a breath and tried not to sob. "Three doors down from where we said goodbye to Mary."

He tried again, unsuccessfully this time to hold back the tears. It had been too long and too hard of a day... days really.

"Fuck." John uttered softly into the quiet room. "I never... never wanted to set foot in this ward again. Not even a toe, Sherlock." The laugh was gruff. Gallows humour. They were good at this weren't they? "I'd kill you for this, except I want you to live so damn badly."

The empty feel of the room was unnerving. He 'knew' Sherlock was alive, but he couldn't 'feel' him. It was too much for one night. Too close.

"I love you, you daft madman..." John stood and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. Then nuzzled his hair for the briefest of moments before turning and leaving the room. With the lowlights on.


	34. Chapter 34

"Two surgeries... three so far." John spoke to Blackwood. He was surprised to get the call, but was honestly happy to have someone else who had been through this type of worry to talk to. "It will be nice to see you at the house; really nice. Is Henn going to be with you? McMath?"

John listened to Blackwood. He chuckled at the idiot's smart mouth.

"You are going to get yourself into so much trouble..." He swallowed the next set of giggles. "Christ, I'm not supposed to be laughing in here. Yes. I will see you tomorrow then? Ta!"

John texted Mycroft to make him aware they might have to open two more rooms and expect three more guests. Within a minute the man texted back, stating he had the house staff begin prep this morning. Omniscient arse.

"Well, looks like the boys will be joining us after all. As you heard, there will be no sharp, pointy, things-that-go-bang gifts allowed for our bumble though." John stroked Sherlock's unruly curls. "I'm nervous about today. I know your charts are looking good, it's just... you know the things that could go wrong... or might have already done and we just don't know it yet."

He held the soft long fingers, then covered them with his own hand.

"What if, after... you don't remember any of it?" John teared for what felt like the millionth time. "Remember me? Hamish, our bumble? Any of it... out of it all, please... please remember us."

John tried to pull himself together again, remembering what Blackwood had said. It was true... everything has it's time. But they had never... it wasn't ever going to be enough. John knew that now. He was also a doctor, and even though this wasn't his area of expertise, he knew the types of complications that were possible. As much as he trusted the doctors that were present for Sherlock's care, they couldn't control the damage that had already occurred. All they could do was hope for the best.

"Doctor Watson?" The attending knocked as she entered the room. "So are we ready? He seems stable enough to wean him and allow him to wake. It can take time, but you've seen this end before, correct?"

"Yes, with a few of my own patients." That was what worried him so. "I'm aware of the possibility it could take days for a 'full' response, that he might have retrograde amnesia...ICU psychosis..." John shook his head once as affirmation. "His brother and our friends have been prepped for the possibility as well. He received... well you've read. We're just glad he's still with us."

"Maybe with a bit of luck, he may be home just after the holiday." She was upbeat and seemed genuinely positive about the situation. "I'll let the nurse know and get the orders in. Do you want anyone else present?"

"No, I'll inform them though." He gave a small smile back. "You know how long these things can go before there is any 'response'... I'll have them spell me then. Let them rest now and hash our rounds out."

Good news, then. John held the pale hand tight for a moment before resting his forehead against Sherlock's. The clarity of the decision ran over him; confirmation that they'd begin soon focused everything. No longer forced to hold together, he allowed the tranquility of the moment to wash everything else away.

John turned his attention back towards Sherlock. "Well, you heard it. Today's the day. Let's hope you are responsive in the first 24, yea?"

"Do you think it will be like this?" Sherlock asked. "Our life?"

He wondered how much, if any would translate properly. There were times, no matter how real this felt, that there were times that he knew none of this could be happening. Sherlock knew he wasn't psychotic. There were snips... point of time he was remembering.

"Like what, Sherlock?" John looked at him over his laptop. "We've always been this way... well, not always... but still the sentiment is there."

"But John... look." Sherlock looked towards their garden. "Even the bees are hibernating... it's vexing. I feel their agitation in the apiaries, but they refuse to come out. It's not- OH!"

Sherlock looked out their kitchen window and watched as the deep frost ate into the ground. It moved as if alive, pressing forward in a regimented fashion. This was not possible. They'd die in moments if it got into the house. Might still from the temperature drop. What if they couldn't go out to even stock wood?

"Sherlock?" John looked at him... assessingly? "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"I'm cold, John!" Sherlock looked out the window and saw the permafrost crept, even closer, along the ground. "Look! It's like faeries are bringing winter just to vex me!"

"Let me draw us a bath, alright? Go upstairs and start a fire." John rose and put on his coat. "I'll be right there."

"No, don't go." Sherlock was shaking again. "Please come up with me... help me get warm!"

He was terrified, his body felt as if it had been out in the winter landscape for at least an hour. Why would he have done that? He knew better. John must have just brought them both in. God, what had he been doing out in the drifts to begin with?

"Fire, bath, now Sherlock." John sounded very worried. "You'll go into shock... hurry keep moving."

When had winter come upon them?

"John, I am telling you- It. Was. Just. Spring." Sherlock began shivering, his veins felt as if they were bruised and pulsed hard to move his sluggish blood through to vital areas. "I'm going to lose you... I don't want to lose this, John."

"You won't," John smiled sadly as he lowered Sherlock onto their bed. "I'll be seeing you very soon."

"J-J-ohn... bath... heat?" Sherlock questioned. He was terrified. Why wasn't John helping him? Was it too late and John was trying to spare him the knowledge?

John covered them both with their thick winter bedding; the deep blue velvet of the extra coverlet felt air-light and cool. It was wrong. This was all wrong. He focused on John's eyes, the only thing he knew to be true. Must be true.

"I've got you, Sherlock." John snugged beside him. "It's just a trick, remember?"

"N-n-o, not a t-trick!" Sherlock was shivering and no longer fully aware of his surroundings. "I'm dy-ing... aren't I?"

"No," John kissed him. "You're coming home."

John watched from the doorway, leaning against the cool metal of the frame. The doctor and nurses around the bed working steadily to get Sherlock brought up to a state of light sedation and checked wean-ability from the ventilator.

The worry was, in John's opinion, the amount of the barbiturates they had used to keep Sherlock in a non-agitated state. John knew his concern was founded that it might have depressed Sherlock's system too much... that he might not begin to show signs of true-waking until day two or three.

"Steady, doctor." Mycroft had come in behind him. He placed his hand on John's shoulder. "You know how hard this can be for the patient."

"Wish that were comforting." John looked down and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Would help if I could get rid of this damned headache."

"No sleep again? John..." Mycroft softly chastised. "You'll not be able to help anyone if you work yourself into an adjoining bed."

John laughed at this. It was true, he'd been here the last thirty-two hours waiting on the staff to 'pull-the-trigger'. He watched as they placed the cooling blankets on Sherlock. They were to help give him stimuli to latch on to after such a deep sedation, but John was still worried how it might translate on Sherlock's side. The man had never liked cold.

"Well I might actually be able to take a kip then, yea?" He settled himself once again. "Seriously, this is going to be a while, sure you don't mind?"

"Once you are satisfied, then you should go." Mycroft stated. "You need the rest. I'll notify you the moment anything occurs with Sherlock."

"Christmas Miracle possibly?" John murmured back. "Can't make that happen can you? It's only-"

"Six days. Yes. I know." Mycroft's words seemed dour. "But he has been known to perform miracles before..."

"Of his own making." John sighed and continued to watch the medical staff work, but he couldn't help to think on it now that the issue was raised. "We have no real idea how much will be gone."


	35. Chapter 35

His eyes opened to a room. It was quiet.

When he swallowed it felt like an axe had been imbedded at one time.

He could feel the cool line of an intravenous tube, the slight weight of the peripheral canulae; size 18. PICC line as well... so he'd been out for awhile. He'd have to ask what use it had been intended for.

His throat then most likely raw from quick insertion or prolonged usage of ventilator.

It was dark and very cool.

He could smell old tea, forgotten patisserie... lunette au abricot, notes of bergamot and rosin... vetiver... citron... cologne. John's cologne.

John had been here.

Breathing. Slow and restive. Beside him.

God, but he ached and wanted to touch... confirm. He was so weak.

"J-Je- an..." He tried to swallow down the pain, but the tears sprung immediately as did the gasp.

"Sherlock?" Came the soft answer. "Shh... I'm here. It's night time. You've been badly injured. I'll get you ice chips... here."

A plastic spoon was placed at his lips and he took the succor with praises he could not yet articulate.

"We've been here a few weeks. You've been recovering from a trauma. You are four days out from an induced coma."

Another serving of ice was at his lips.

"You've been awake off and on for the last two and a half, but not spoken as yet."

Warm, callused left hand over his right. Indicative of firearm use, mostly pistol. Using his military physician summary intonation to keep me appraised as I have forgotten or not heard this information as yet.

"Je-an, Es-tu avec moi?" He had to swallow carefully and speak slowly. "Est-ce vrai? Actuel?"

"Ok, seems like you are understanding English fine, but speaking in French." John sighed, but it did not sound worried. "To answer your questions first. Yes, this is real and I am physically beside you." John paused. "Do you think you could respond in English?"

"Oui...Il devrait être possible que vous me comprenez?"

"I speak French, Sherlock. You've most likely deleted that fact, but for now let's take it as it alright?"

The door opened to the room, but no lights came on.

"Dr. Watson?" The female asked... nurse... possibly. "Is Mr. Holmes cognizant?" She came further into the room leaving the door open. "Hello, I'm Dr. Jones. Martha. Your brother brought me on to see to your care."

He coughed, his whole body ached from it. Oh... ""Je-an..."

"Sherlock, it's alright. Don't get agitated... it will hurt you even if you only feel the edges of it." John looked to Dr. Jones. "He's only started speaking French, but he understands everything we say."

"First language possibly? One he feels most comfortable with speaking. This does happen. We'll need a CT scan... a few other tests if he stays alert this time. I'll put the orders in. Would you like the lowlights on?"

"Yes. Thank you, Martha."

The doctor left the room, closing the door behind her. He looked back to John and grasped his hand so many words that wanted to spill from him it was almost dizzying. His mind raced, wanting to note everything, the changes in him, the exhaustion that was clear on John's face even though there was happiness as well... his mind raced ahead and backwards as it accessed a particular memory...

"Bourdon?" His eyes met John's as threads of memory came to him. "Bumble?"

"Hamish?" John's eyes glistened in the low light as he heaved a deep calming breath. "My son?"

"Notre fils, Jean... John." He looked into John's eyes and watched intently. "Yes?"

"Oh, God. Yes, Sherlock... our son." John broke then and cried. "God, I've missed you so... so much. I know there is so much for you to recover... but we will take it slow alright? Fast is not always the best in these circumstances."

John kissed his hand and smiled weakly. He was just content to be present finally, although some of what he remembered would have to be re-organised. The pull of what was and what was dream still blurred together.

"It's Christmas Eve. You'll not be able to go home yet, but we'll have you there soon. I'll see if Mycroft can get support staff to the house and maybe get you home a little early only if it's allowed. Want some more ice?"

He nodded as speaking, while wonderful to do, was exhausting. Instead he made motion with his right hand as if he were writing. John nodded and handed him a biro and his moleskin. Sherlock saw that John had been taking notes the entire time. He would have to go through them at a later date if John allowed.

Missed you, but haven't.

We were in

une petite masion... cottage.

Want to document everything.

Vous avez aimé le jardin, surtout faire de la confiture de framboise.

It was de tous côtés!

"Me? Raspberry jam... I was making raspberry jam?" John laughed.

Et la lavande and sage!

I want to

I had sketched while I was away esperant for us.

"One thing at a time." John fed him ice chips. "Rest now. Not too busy yet, shall I read to you awhile?"

It was the second day, on Boxing Day, that the staff moved to have Sherlock up and walking. He'd need to have full assistance to begin with, but with a walker he shouldn't have had issue. If it weren't for the fast moving nurse and therapist, he would have fallen. That is when the discussions began. Simple possibilities that were trivial really. Then they weren't. More tests were done.

They began the discussion of possible ischemic stroke or nerve damage somewhere in the lower lumbar region from initial trauma. If he'd need to learn how to walk again, if he'd spontaneously become ambulatory then rebuild with assistance, or if he'd lost the ability for the time being. There was always a note of positive that rang true to both John and he, so they dug in and researched. Took it academically. Some would say coping mechanism, but anyone that knew the couple knew better.

By the fourth day he was determined and up on his feet.

By the fifth he was demanding to go home.

Mycroft had seen to there being a minimum on-call staff and necessary items waiting at the house that Dr. Jones had approved of, as well as a few comforting items as well. They both were realistic and knew their family would be in residence for at least another week. John had explained that Mycroft had taken over the large study and turned it into his home-away-from-office, and had been taking everything in stride from there, so he would be staying with them for the time being.

"It's New Year's Eve tonight." John kissed him sweetly. "New beginnings and all that."

"I'm just glad to be going, well, home for now, I suppose." Sherlock smiled up at him. "To see Hamish."

"Don't forget Greg and Molly are still with us for the next couple of days!" John chastised.

John, with the help of a nurse got Sherlock settled into the back of the sedan that had been waiting for them.

"Yes, yes." He kissed John after they were on their way. "But all I need is us."

"You are an idiot." John laughed.


End file.
